When We Fall
by MagnanimousMoony
Summary: What if Sherlock were married? Only, she doesn't remember it after an accident nearly eight years ago. It explains why he could never see himself with anyone. What if PostReichenbach, John, who knows nothing of this secret wife, asks that very woman to flatshare with him? If she remembers her life, how can either heal over her dead, forgotten husband? Sherlock/OC. He will come back
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Waking, there was kind beeping, muffled sounds, and bright white. There was, of course, the basic knowledge that she was in a hospital, that she was in a lot of pain, but… where? Where, exactly, could she be, and who, exactly, was she? Letting out a strangled sound of pain, the woman tried to sit up.

One arm in a cast, she caused herself more trouble than planned, and a throbbing in her head followed. Leaning over herself, she felt sick at the sharp pain in her ribs, but it was still better than lying down. What was happening? What happened to her?

Taking in a deep breath, her free hand went over her face. Gauze on her forehead, her cheek felt rough and scraped, and even lightly touching her eyelids hurt though that was likely from exhaustion rather than injury. Wincing at the sudden twinge at her temple, the hand dropped. She turned a bit, to find something to help her or call a nurse – she could call a nurse, right? – but it was hard to reach from where she sat, and that the remote was on her side with the broken arm.

The door to her room opened when she was attempting to shift, biting her lip to keep from making a sound too loud, only it wasn't any nurse or doctor. It was a very young, tall and thin man who looked like he hadn't slept, wearing rumpled clothes. Was this someone that she knew? The man holding the coffee, striding in with trepidation like this room were utter hell?

"What happened?" Her voice cracked and was quiet, catching the attention of the man before he'd even looked up and noticed her.

When he did, the cup dropped from his hand and she thought he may cry. The woman didn't want to see anyone cry, she tried to remember him as he rushed to her bedside, but nothing came to mind. More than cautious for her wounds, the man kissed her non-scraped cheek, holding her uninjured hand, sitting on the side of her bed.

"I'm sorry." He did cry, just one of two tears, leaning near her. It was awkward and sad, but the woman didn't move. She was too afraid to hurt herself in the process to back away from the stranger. "It's my fault – you were pushed off the roof. We're in the hospital – St. Bart's."

The woman remembered only that this was London. Nothing else. Not a thing came to mind. "Who am I?"

Those words startled the man into moving back. His look changed from despair and guilt to complete annihilation. "Johanna." He spoke with this deep, mournful voice. "You- It's Johanna, remember? Spelt J-o-h-a-n-n-a, pronounced Jonah. You love correcting people."

It was clear he was desperate she remember it, but Johanna-pronounced-Jonah had no idea that was who she was. "Who are you?" She went on, feeling his grip on her hand tense a bit.

"Jo- I'm… Sherlock. It's Sherlock." She had never heard such a name, but her heart pumped painfully. Johanna didn't remember him.

But she was scared now. She had a name she didn't know, he was someone close to her that she didn't know, and he had said she was pushed. "Did you push me?" She asked with tears. "I was pushed off a roof. Who would push me off a roof?"

They could each hear the heart monitor beginning to beep a little faster as her pulse elevated. She was panicking, and the man let go of her. "I would never. Johanna, I'm–"

Before he could tell her, the door opened again and this time, it was a doctor. "She doesn't remember anything!" Sherlock shouted.

The doctor seemed surprised to even see her awake, and then sympathetic. "Mr. Holmes, I need to check up on her. Do you mind waiting outside?" He asked of the strange man.

"I'm not leaving her." Sherlock ordered.

While Johanna didn't hate the compassion, she was still alarmed and scared, not knowing what was happening. "I don't even know you!" She bit out without meaning to. "I don't know me! Leave me alone!"

Her voice turned to a near scream. The doctor made the man leave, and other nurses came. They consoled her, gave her medicine, explained the amnesia. They even told her her name again, told her she was twenty-two, that she had light brown hair she couldn't see and green eyes she couldn't see. She'd survived a fall, and only just at four stories. She was lucky to have been alive, they said, that this was all minimal damage. That she should focus on recovery and spend as much time as possible with her husband.

Johanna startled then. "No, no." She told the doctor quickly. There was no way she'd forget her husband – how could someone forget anybody they loved so much? Unless she didn't love him. "I can't! I don't want to. I'm not married, I can't be married."

"We're going to keep you a few more days." The doctor carried on without trying to convince her otherwise, ignoring her crying. "We'll encourage you to see as many visitors as you can, see if it triggers your memory; hopefully it will come back. It could happen all at one or every now and then, but you may never remember the incident."

The incident. Being pushed off of a building, clearly, was the incident. How could he call it something like that? _The incident_. Why not just call it what it was? Being pushed off a roof, simple as that.

Over the next few days, she had visitors even though she didn't want to. That man, Sherlock, another person name Mycroft, an older woman claiming to be her aunt – she didn't even have parents. A university professor, an old friend, her neighbor she was apparently close with, her landlord who told her they used to chat all the time. He even brought a picture of her home as if that was going to jog her memory.

Nothing helped. Especially not her mood swings. Sherlock brought her flowers once – he always seemed so depressing and Johanna couldn't bring herself to ask if he was the husband she forgot. Either way, he brought flowers; ones she didn't recognize with three yellow petals and one purple one, stripes in the yellow.

"Pansies." He commented as she stared at them at the table next to her bed. Such a simple word she couldn't even remember. "They were… you used to favor them."

Johanna just felt upset to say these were her favorites when she could hardly remember what other flowers looked like. "They're hideous." She told him, first words she'd spoken to him that entire day.

"I know." Sherlock told her. Maybe she was supposed to laugh, but she was upset.

And they weren't bad. The petals looked like little faces. "I don't want them." She blurted despite it. Just because she was upset to not know how much she liked them.

Sherlock took the small potted plant and threw it away. Right into the hospital rubbish bin, without an expression on his face. This bothered Johanna even more than him bringing them. No, she wasn't bothered when he brought them, just when he said she liked them. So if she liked them, he should have ignored when she said she didn't want them.

"Why would you do that?" Johanna asked.

"You didn't want them." He answered lightly, getting upset with her like she was with him.

She sat up. "But they're my favorite!"

Without fixing anything, saying anything, Sherlock left the room. Johanna couldn't get up, her cracked ribs prevented that, but if she could have she would have taken the flowers from the trash. They really weren't horrible: she was. She was horrible.

Nothing got better, and nothing got worse. Johanna couldn't ever stand her visitors, she couldn't make herself ask about her life, and she couldn't go home. Wherever, whatever home was, it was a strange place. Everything was a strange place, with strange people. But real strangers were better than the ones that knew everything she didn't know about herself. So, essentially, she ran away.


	2. Chapter 2

** Chapter 2**

* * *

When Sherlock and John first met, when they first went out, Sherlock had commented that he didn't do relationships. No boyfriend, girlfriend, anyone. Married to his work had been the real comment. And that always stayed in place – he never showed interest in anyone at any time, for any reason.

John always wondered if there had been a reason. Just because Sherlock was maybe asexual? Perhaps the Asperger's-like disorder kept him from it. Not that John was going to bring it up. Too many people already thought that he was gay, and he needn't convince his friend of it as well. But there came a point when John began to notice something.

A woman, just another person on the street that looked homeless, begging, only she was clean. Not a filthy mess like the others, usually in old but not too messy clothes, and always with a bag over her shoulder. John just thought it was coincidence to see her every time they went out and Sherlock chose a place to eat. But then he started to notice Sherlock staring.

"Who is she?" John asked Sherlock once he finally gained the nerve, around the third time Sherlock was caught staring. Turning from the window, the detective caught John's face with something akin to horror in his expression. Faint, but there. "That woman, the homeless one; I've seen her everywhere we go."

"Coincidence." Sherlock uttered in a flat tone.

The Army doctor knew better. "Nothing is coincidence, you said so yourself." John scolded his friend. "Are we stalking her?"

The man rubbed his face, avoiding the topic, clearly. John waited for any answer – he wanted to know what they were doing. He'd been noticing her for a long time, and now John was sure there was a reason. Especially with Sherlock acting so suspicious now.

"What do you think it is?" Sherlock leaned forward. "Why would we be following a homeless woman?"

John thought it over for a moment. Why would they be stalking a homeless woman? "Part of your network? Something in a case? Um, is she a criminal?"

"No, no, no." Sherlock denied every theory that he had. Slowly, but completely shaming. "Keep thinking."

"No, tell me." John said. He didn't think that he could figure this out at all. "It seems personal."

Sherlock gave him a sour look, leaning back again. When he looked out the window, the expression fell to one John couldn't read at all. "It's not." Sherlock told him, then refused to say anything else about it.

It was another few months, and many, many times of seeing that same woman, until John brought it up again.

"Is she, I don't know, some undercover agent?" It was a farfetched idea that John didn't even believe, but he needed to start the conversation.

Sherlock didn't seem to catch on when he said it, however. It was out of context, considering they were talking about a case just moments before. "Excuse me?"

He gestured to the window. More so, to the woman across the street lighting a cigarette. "The homeless woman. We've been stalking her for seven months."

"Is it so important to know, John?" Sherlock inquired.

"Well, if one day we could potentially be arrested for it, then yes." John scoffed.

There was a long pause, and Sherlock looked pensive. "She was the victim in a case I worked six, almost seven years ago. Before I joined Scotland Yard and was running about like a vigilante." He answered.

Then nothing. John looked at him in confusion. "Then why are we following her?"

"She survived a fall, but suffered amnesia." Sherlock began. John stopped being insistent, a little surprised, actually. Sherlock sounded _guilty_. "It was my fault. Either way, she had a life before it, but ran away. So I help her now and then – I have people give her money, I make sure she's alright."

"What do you mean she ran away?" John blurted without meaning to. He was going to drop it, he planned to, but that statement caught him.

Sherlock gave a smile that turned out a bit crude. Not meaningful, spiteful, angry. "She couldn't handle having forgotten everything. Left her husband, her family, everything. For a while she made it, but in months she was on the street. At least she's clever." He answered. "Uses the money she panhandles for a gym membership so she has a locker and a place to shower. Sleeps off the road. Generally healthy."

He didn't know what to say. John looked out the window at the woman, the clever homeless woman who didn't even know she had a life. What was anyone supposed to say after something like that? Possibly he shouldn't have asked at all. But there was one more thing on his mind, and he didn't think Sherlock would let him bring it up again if he stopped talking now.

"Why are you so attached over something that happened six years ago?"

Sherlock tucked his hand under his chin, watching her. "It's best you don't know anything else, John." He told him. "Not about her."


	3. Chapter 3

** Chapter 3**

* * *

It was all over the news. SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS. Not that John would ever believe a word, not a letter of those articles. Sherlock never faked a moment, not a thing. Everything was so spontaneous – what of all their cases that never involved Moriarty? He didn't fake that, none of it, so he wouldn't have faked the rest either.

It had been a bit more than two months, even. John had money – Sherlock left it to him, like he knew that he was going to jump. Mrs. Hudson wasn't hurting, either, so she wasn't asking for rent. Not that John had spent a whole light of time at the flat. He'd tried. The nightmares came, he'd leave, and the only time he managed to sleep in the flat was if he was dead tired and bypassed the living room completely to go to his room upstairs.

He knew he wouldn't be able to properly live in that flat until he packed up everything that was Sherlock's. He just had to hide it somewhere, but John had no nerve and little time, having gotten a job. Not that it was going over easily. He often stayed too late, or arrived very late, and there was frequently some reporter trying to interrupt his schedule for an interview. Another reason he avoided Baker Street – so that they couldn't find him.

On his day off, John was walking through London nearer to home. All the usual places. Where they ate, where they had cases, just anywhere that came to mind – it was all Sherlock related. Lately his leg had been bothering him as well. Out of stubbornness he refused to believe his psychosomatic limp was coming back, but the pain was so near the same if at just a smaller degree. He'd never touch a cane this time. It was too enabling.

John was going through a park, just to clear his mind of cabs and strangers for a moment, when he noticed her. That homeless woman, sitting on a bench with a ratty book in her lap. She looked bad, tired, but still better than any other tramp around London. And now she was without Sherlock to help her, a cardboard sign propped up behind her bag saying _'saving for home'_. Optimistic of her, to be saving for a flat in London without even having a job.

Thinking it only right, Sherlock had left John money after all, he sorted through his wallet. He had more than enough to get to Baker Street in a cab, as well as an extra forty pounds. Knowing he could spare it he walked over to her, clearing his throat as he held the money out. She looked up through a curtain of light brown hair at the sound.

"Oh, no, really…" She began waving her hand at him. Her look was sincere and smiling. "I can't take so much. No, I'm not even panhandling right now."

He gestured to the sign. "Just helping you out." John forced a smile, one of few he even mustered in the past month.

The woman gave a tilt of her head, a scrunch of her nose. She really was young, and pretty. This was someone who'd been homeless a near eight years? "I'm sorry, it's a lot."

"You're apologizing for not taking my money?" John questioned. It was… funny, if he could make himself laugh. "Um, it's not really from me. It's from a friend of mine."

Her expression changed greatly. Recognition, and curiosity. "The stranger, the tall man. Did he leave a note?" Her hands went out, and John dropped the money into her palms.

Sherlock left her notes? "No, not this time." He told her, sitting on the bench as she pocked the notes. "Does he do it often? You know who he is?"

"No, different people like you come up and give me money. I've asked, they say it's a stranger, tall, dark hair. Never more than that." She frowned a bit, closing her book with a finger in her place. John saw the title; Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe. "He does leave notes sometimes. Just hello and such."

"Ah." John hummed a bit, wondering why he'd sat down. He really knew nothing about this woman – not anything he could mention. Her amnesia seemed a bit personal.

There was a shuffle and pause next to him. "My name's Johanna."

"Jo-nah?" John pronounced. It sounded more like a man's name.

When he looked over, she was nodding. "Spelt like Jo-hanna. I like correcting people when they see it written." She smiled at him.

"I'm John." He introduced himself in return. May as well, since Sherlock seemed to never bother.

"Lovely to meet you, then." She spoke in a bit of a sing song.

Every single second it was harder to believe her story. She's cheerful. John sat there for a moment, trying to think. What would Sherlock do? No, that was a horrible idea. The man would probably put her off and utterly offend her, and John couldn't do it. Instead, he looked at her cardboard sign and old, well-kept knapsack.

He had no idea how he was able to do it, but he was talking to her. "It may be forward, but my mate just died."

Johanna looked at him in surprise at those words. "Lord, sorry." She really seemed concerned. Funny, concern and pity from someone way worse off – John felt horrible to have received it.

"I, um, can't bring myself to clean his things out my flat." John carried on, making himself look away from her. It was getting difficult to make his point. "I don't even want to get rid of it – just box it up. But, um, uh… It may be stupid of me to ask for help, but if you're willing, maybe I can give you a room in exchange for packing? I, uh, don't know what to do with it. I don't need rent, so it's just a place to stay while you save up…"

He couldn't make himself turn back to the woman. Perhaps she was upset, that's why she was hesitating. "Why?" She asked slowly instead. "I'm a tramp. I could be anyone."

"Right, course you could." John commented. "But would you really tell me that if you were planning to rob me? Are you a criminal, are you armed, are you going to take everything I've got because I'm vulnerable?"

Johanna lifted a leg, placing her foot on the bench and drawing her knee to her chest. All to lean and look at John's ducked face. "I'm a good person. Far as I know. But I've been on the street for eight years."

"And saving for home." He mentioned the sign again, meeting her eyes. John suddenly felt very stupid. "No, never mind, I'd be rubbish to live with. I'm a worthless mope who limps about." And he meant it.

As John began to stand, little finger grabbed his wrist. "_Nobody_ is worthless. I know so." She told him with a truly foreboding order. That was familiar – it reminded him of Sherlock in a determined, angry moment.

As her hand slipped away, he didn't know what to do with himself then. "Well, sorry for interrupting your read." John began to say a farewell when she jumped to her feet.

She was taller than her thought, a good handful of centimeters higher than him. "Hold on, I'd love to live with you. You look like you could use a little charity, John."

Maybe it was just a hiccup, a little mistake, but John ended up laughing. Laughing, and laughing hard. _He _was the one that needed charity? From a homeless woman on the street? This was _incredible_. And it felt good to laugh so honestly.

"I think you're right." He said after the short lived, bright humor. Johanna picked her pack up, tucking the book in the flipped open top. "Would you like to see it, just before you decide for sure?"

Johanna shook her head. "I'm there for you, mate. Just, I've got some stuff to grab, and I'm gonna stop by the bank."

"Bank." John repeated.

She gave a slight laugh. "Just because I'm homeless doesn't mean I haven't improvised. I've got an ID, I have a bank. I _have_ been saving for a bit now." To prove it, she reached into her jeans pocket and showed him an ID. Not long enough to catch more than the picture of her.

She _was _clever. Sherlock had disclosed that, the only thing he really disclosed at all. Now John wasn't sure if he was functioning out of pity and charity to her, or pure interest. "Need help, or do you want to meet there?" He asked her.

"Tell me the address – I've got the memory of an elephant." Johanna claimed.

John hesitated. All he did know about her was that she'd gotten amnesia. So this claim to have spectacular recall was half as sincere to him. "221B Baker Street. There, uh, there might be people out front. Reporters. Sorry about that."

Her brow furrowed. "Why?" At least she wasn't refusing to move in, after that comment. He could understand if she had.

"Um, my flatmate… You don't read the papers, do you?" He'd been mentioned and pictured everywhere Sherlock had been – nothing had calmed in the two months of time. If she didn't know about it by then, there had to be a reason.

She tilted her head. "Rubbish, I think – the papers. I never read them." Johanna told him. "And if I do, I rarely believe them. So, 221B Baker Street…"

"Right, yeah, meet you there." John stuttered and they split, going two completely opposite directions. Her for the bank, likely a gym as well, and John to get a cab on the road.

When he got back, there was nobody lingering for the time being so he slipped inside. That was when John realized he hadn't even thought to concern Mrs. Hudson with his random decision. Knowing he'd have to bring it up, he was slow to her flat. Best not to mention he picked a random girl in the street to move in.

"Come in, dear." Mrs. Hudson gave a light call when he knocked on the open door. John, rarely ever stepping foot in the floral decorated, first floor flat, felt odd. But he still found Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen cleaning some dishes. "How are you? Been a good day off I hope."

John leaned in the door way, a hand discreetly rubbing his leg. "I suppose. I… sort of found a new flatmate."

As expected, this startled the older woman. "Oh?" She asked slowly. "Are you sure… It hasn't been all too long."

"I know." John really was far from ready. "But it's a fair trade. I, um, I need the help with Sherlock's things… I can't seem to make myself walk into the flat alone anymore."

With a motherly expression, Mrs. Hudson came up and hugged John. Short, and with a pat on the back. "Alright, dear. When he gets here I'll make us all a cuppa."

"She." John corrected Mrs. Hudson. That intrigued her further. "Just someone I met. I'll, um, I should change. I'll be back down when she gets here."

He felt really sick, but not that he was getting a new flatmate. Just that he really may be able to prove Johanna wrong eventually. It was likely he'd be worthless, like he said. Worthless, but not regretful – it felt right to let her in. A great bonus that she didn't even know a thing about Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Johanna would never accept such absurd offers, not once in her life that she knew. Only, she really did feel horribly for this John character. Dead friend, clear pain in his leg, emotionally damaged and not for the first time ever. It just wasn't like her to ignore a person like him, and if he wanted her help she'd give it. Stay with him just long enough to make his home a home again, then be gone and back to the streets. Because while she was looking forward to having a home of her own once again someday, she thrived on the streets.

There was little Johanna called her own these days, either. It all fit into a duffel bag in a locker at the gym – one she frequented to stay clean and sometimes use. There were clothes, all worn until she decided it was too messy and bought a new shirt of pants to replace them; only a few books, always whatever she favored and usually thick collections of stories; extra blanket for winter; an umbrella for rainy days; a tape player she found on the street that picked up a few good radio stations. Some other little things as well, but not much.

She already been to the bank, before going to the gym. Johanna put in an address other than the community center than offered to hold her mail for years now. It felt good to put 221B Baker Street on that form. Then she had gotten money, more than she ever carried. To hold her over on cab fare, food, anything else as she adjusted to living somewhere, even if it was only for a week. Mostly she'd use her bank card, of course.

So before going out to meet John, trusting that this wasn't going to be some suspicious trap, Johanna made sure she was presentable. At least she was clean, but she did refresh her deodorant a bit, self-consciously. And brushed her teeth. Then she was satisfied enough to catch a cab to Baker Street.

While the address was 221_B_, she expected to find 221 on the door. But no, the letter was there as well and it was a curious thing. Putting on her best smile, duffel bag and knapsack over opposite shoulders, she pressed the buzzer for the second flat. It was a few good, long moments before the door opened, John on the other side in a fresh outfit.

"Johanna, come in." He told her, though not too happily. Apparently despite the laughing moment before, depression had snuck back.

She wasn't going to be another sick, sympathetic person who always treated him like he was about to crack. "Thank you." She smiled lightly and stepped into the entrance hall of the slim building.

"Come meet Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. I could use a bit of tea before going back upstairs." John told her, holding out a hand to her, pointing at her bag. "Want me to take that? We can just leave it at the bottom of the stairs for now."

"Oh, I've got it." She wasn't used to people helping her with the simple things, so she dropped then a bit roughly for herself.

Then John led her back to the landlady's flat, 221A. They walked right into the open door way, a small older woman coming up. "Lovely to meet you, dear!" She took Johanna's hand. "I'm Mrs. Hudson."

Johanna slid her hand from the soft grip, a small smile on her face. "I'm Johanna." She introduced, pronouncing it the proper way she always did. _Jonah_.

"Well I've just put the kettle on the stove. Have a sit, dear." Mrs. Hudson guided with her hands on Johanna's back to the very floral couch.

She sat a bit awkwardly, perched on the edge of a soft cushion. Johanna didn't think she could recall the last time she sat on a couch. Certainly not in the last eight years, and she had great recall of those years, but not a single day before. John sat with her down on the couch.

"So how old are you, dear? You look very young." Mrs. Hudson called as she began to set cups and a teapot on a tray, taking out tea bags.

Johanna felt a bit flattered, looking _young. _After all she'd been through? "Twenty-nine. No- Thirty. I think I just had my birthday." She answered in a bit of confusion.

"Oh, dear, a bit of memory lapse?" Mrs. Hudson gave a light laugh.

Honestly, it was just a personal detail. She rarely cared for who she was and never really paid attention to it. It was shaming to forget it all. "No, I've a great memory, I just don't like to remember my birthday." She suppressed the memory of it constantly.

"How silly." The landlady claimed. Johanna didn't give a reaction about it. "And what do you do, dear? I suspect you have a fine job."

She stilled. John clearly didn't say she was a tramp. "Currently unemployed, actually." She spoke calmly. "I did work in a library, for a bit, but that didn't last." Not when they found out she was nothing more than a homeless woman and fired her.

"Too bad. Well, did you study English in university? I'm sure there are plenty of jobs out there for your type." Mrs. Hudson commented lightly. "You look the reading type."

Johanna sat very still. "I don't know." She sat as the kettle began to whistle. Mrs. Hudson turned the stove off, commenting as she poured it into the pot.

"Well, you could always get another nice, little job." She was overly pleasant then.

It didn't feel the time to admit her amnesia. It was a past she forgot, that she gave up, moving ahead. "Yes, I guess I could." Johanna just commented.

As the tea steeped, Mrs. Hudson brought it to the coffee table for them. "Let that be for a moment." She sat in a stiff back arm chair next to the couch. "I think it'll be good having someone else about the flat."

That's right, John's friend had died. Johanna looked at him, seeing the heavy look in his eyes. "Same." He spoke up for the first time in a few minutes. "But fair warning, it's a wreck around here."

She felt he meant the people just as much as the flat she'd be helping to clean. "I'd fit right in, I think." Johanna tried to be light.

"Oh, don't try too hard." Mrs. Hudson warned. "It's awful. Just, ever since Sherlock, anything triggers the sniffles."

Johanna paused a moment. "Sherlock…" She repeated with a scrunched face. It sounded familiar but she couldn't place it. Not to any particular person.

"You _really_ don't read the papers." John seemed to find this just as surprising as last he asked. Johanna gave a shrug. They were disinteresting, often lies, or boring. "Sort of refreshing, to not have accusations thrown about."

Only now she was very curious what the man had done, the man who died. Why he'd be in the news at all. But she wouldn't ask just yet. Both of the two in her company seemed very upset, so she kept her mouth closed about that.

"Well, how about I pour the tea." Johanna smiled and carefully picked up the pot. Nobody complained, not that she gave them time as she poured the first of three matching cups.

She hadn't had proper tea once, as long as she could remember. Just the instant, pre-maid kind that poured from a machine, or a cup she bought at any café. So sitting back with the steaming cup, one sugar mixed in, she was nervously excited for it. That first sip was heaven, but she didn't make a single reaction. Didn't want to be seen as foolish, now did she?

After a little more chatter with Mrs. Hudson and John occasionally joining in, the tea was finished and it was time for Johanna to see the flat. She carried her bags up the stairs slowly trailing after John. This is what they were here for – her, at least.

They entered a dusty, dim room. Cluttered with books, papers, a chemistry lab in the kitchen, and a skull accompanying a display of dead bugs on the mantle. "So, what's his?" She asked. "That we're packing."

John lingered at the door as she let herself in completely, so Johanna had to turn to him. "Everything." He said. "Everything is his."

She stopped staring at him to look at the flat. It really didn't seem like John, based on her first and second impression of the man so far. He was very… Stiff and neat, it seemed. Like a military man, and she did not doubt it now that the thought crossed her mind.

"I don't want to get rid of everything… Just, most of it." He mentioned, still in the doorway. "You can take his room if you like. Or the couch. I'll have to get boxes… And time off work to do it all. Nothing for today, for sure."

Understanding, Johanna put her bags down, a bit nicer this time, in front of the couch. She wasn't sure going into that bedroom was the best idea just yet. "Want to change the tag on the buzzer?" John asked her lightly.

"And put what?" She asked. "I've never had a tag before."

His head dipped a bit. "First name or last name?" He asked her.

"First." Johanna claimed now that she knew. "Can I write it? I'll do it."

She actually got happy about this. John told her she could, and gave her a key to the flat. That was the most nerve wracking moment of the entire day. Getting a key. It would go on the key ring, obviously, with her gym locker key for the time being.

After that John said he was going to lie down. So Johanna was to make herself at home but first, the name tag. Finding a paper and pen on the dining table in the living room, she went downstairs to see what it would require. Just paper, folded to the right size.

She folded it first, carefully, holding it to the old tag. The one that said _Sherlock H & John W_. Johanna took it out carefully, then slid the new, blank one in. Debating for a moment, she lifted the pen and wrote the tag. There was just enough room in her tiny, neat print to write what felt proper for the time being.

_John, Sherlock, & Johanna_.


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter 4**

* * *

The boxes had been bought, tucked behind the couch and flat. Ready to be assembled and filled. John had gotten them the day after Johanna moved in, but never brought himself to make things progress. Johanna was kind and careful, however, treating him as if there was nothing to do, nothing to worry over, and allowing him to sort through his thought. John knew that she was ready to get to work, but holding off for him, and he was utterly thankful.

And in the four days since she moved in, for that was how long it had been, they got to know each other. He heard about her odd jobs, her street life, whatever she was willing to mention. In turn he explained that he'd been to Afghanistan and that he was a doctor. Not any more, just working in a simple clinic, but he'd once been great. It was actually wonderful, but he wanted to hear the story of her amnesia, to know what she remembered of her life before. Curiosity was eating at him but he didn't dare explain he knew exactly who she was before asking her to move in.

John was leaving for another day of work, pulling on his coat. Johanna was on the couch, under a blanket but on her stomach, reading. How he usually found her, since she never dared enter Sherlock's room. "I'll see you later."

She looked up with a small smile. "Alright. I'm going to the market later – want anything?" Johanna asked him.

"Uh, no, but let me leave you some cash–"

She cut him off as he was reaching for his wallet. "I've got it, mate. I'm not _broke_." Johanna told him, sitting up and back on her heels. "Now, what do you want?"

He was a little hesitant. It was always John who went to the store before. "Some beans. Then whatever you want, clearly." He said quietly.

"Okay." Johanna agreed with him. "See you."

He gave a dry smile and left the flat. There was this large part still trying to decide whether he liked this whole flatmate deal – he didn't understand why anyone would actually agree to live with him, homeless or not.

Distractedly walking out the door, John almost went right past the man at the curb if not for a noisy throat clear. He looked up – Mycroft. First he saw of the man since Sherlock's funeral, and John really didn't want to see him now, either. It wasn't that he placed blame, that was harsh, but Mycroft had done nothing to stifle those who claimed Sherlock was _fake_. Stopping mid stride, John gave the man a cold look.

"I've got no time for you, Mycroft. I need to get to work." He answered the sound. John had time, honestly, he was ten minutes ahead of schedule. He just didn't want to deal with him.

"I'll give you a ride. Get in." Mycroft nodded at the black car that he stood in front of. The driver came out and opened the back door for them. "It's rather important."

Not knowing how to say no, if anything, John agreed and got in, sliding over to the other side of the car. This was at least a step above being kidnapped. Not that there was a reason to hide from Sherlock anymore, not when he was so completely gone. The car pulled from the curb, driving away from the flat.

A near few minutes passed in quiet. "What's this about, Mycroft?" John finally caved in, asking him.

The dignified man stared straight ahead. "It's about your new flatmate, Johanna." For a moment John was surprised Mycroft even pronounced it properly. He'd assume it was only ever written for the man.

"What about her? She's helping me." John looked out the window at London passing them by. "I need someone who doesn't know Sherlock around."

There was a breath. "You couldn't have picked a better person, should that be the case." Mycroft retorted, but John didn't understand. "You don't know what you've asked of her, John, and for that you are lucky."

"Why? Did something happen to her before the amnesia?" John asked.

The other man made a sound, and he turned. Mycroft had lifted a brow in wonder. "How much, precisely, do you know about that?"

Nothing, likely not much more than you could learn from any newspaper article, if he'd bothered to look her up. "Just that she fell and got amnesia on a case Sherlock worked. I don't know anything else." He answered. "Is there something that I should know?"

"Not at all." Mycroft denied and faced front. "Glittering personality, an absolutely clear criminal record, a sizeable savings account and charitable attitude. Absolutely the best you could do when picking a tramp up off the street on a whim."

John felt somewhat insulted – no, maybe just protective. "Then don't pick me up and warn me about my flatmate."

"I'm not warning you about her. I'm simply informing you there's a lot to know, and none of it you need to know." Mycroft refined. This was further confusing John. "But should anything happen, call me. I'd be curious to know how it happens."

There was silence the rest of the ride, and then Mycroft dropped John off at the clinic. He tried to shake everything from his mind, delving into his work.

* * *

Johanna went to the shop and got beans. Lots of them, many kinds even, to stock the cupboards because she didn't know what John favored. As well as that she got milk, cereal, bread, sandwich making, and some fruit. It was what she had money for – and more. But this was enough to the time being, for her and John when take-out wasn't good enough.

When John got back home, she was sitting at the table, staring out the curtains she'd opened. Johanna saw him get out the cab and come to the door, but that's not why she was at the window. She was feeling a bit odd, maybe from missing the outside, but that was doubtful. It wasn't about not being there, it was about being _in_ this flat. There was a picture on the wall that she was sure she'd seen before, an art piece of a skull. Other things, as well, giving her a slight sense of déjà vu.

"You alright, Johanna?" John eventually asked, breaking her from her thoughts. She gave a questioning hum, turning her chin resting in her hand to look at him. "It's just, I've been home ten minutes now and you've barely breathed."

The time honestly never processed in her mind. She flushed with guilt. "Sorry. Right, I got you beans, but I didn't know what you liked best so there's different kinds. I also got deli meat, peanut butter, bread, milk, and cereal." Johanna listed off.

"And I already saw the apples." John pointed in front of her. The apples were in a bag on the table. She'd brought them with her to the window set on accident.

Johanna poked at them, the three apples knocking together. "John," She began carefully, letting him know by her tone that she was changing the subject. "You're coming into the living room more often every day."

The first day, the day she moved in, he avoided it. Next day he spent an hour or two with her after work. Day after, several hours, and they actually were able to eat dinner together. Maybe today it would be better, maybe not. But some day soon they _had_ to start packing or she was staying indefinitely.

John didn't say anything after she'd pointed it out to him. "Can we assemble a box?" Johanna asked. "Just put it together and let it sit. Then maybe when it feels right we can put something in it."

"No, it's fine, we'll just pack everything up soon. We don't have to piece it together." John shook his head, not meeting her eyes.

He was avoiding packing. Johanna could tell. "Fine." She agreed with him either way. She'd try again in a day or two.

There was silence between them for a little longer as she pulled both legs up onto the car, knees against her chest and feet flat. There was comfort in huddling, she found. Looking over the table top, Johanna slid all the papers into a pile, looking at the contents of what was written. A description of directional blood spatter, London back alleys and crossroads, other ridiculous things all in simple handwriting.

For a second time John stopped her from something, speaking up. "Why did you accept?" He asked. "Moving in when you seemed hesitant. Even now you look like you miss being homeless."

Johanna stayed huddled, holding the papers. "Because you don't have a home."

He didn't at all seem to understand. "Yes I do. I live here."

"But it's lonely. It's clear this is just a place – somewhere to lay your head when you've avoided it long enough." She listed off. Years of people on the streets, years of knowing more than anyone else would know about being lost, and she had seen it the very moment they met. "This isn't a home – it's a picture. Of everything that there used to be and that you don't have anymore. I've been there, and I want to help."

He looked struggling. There was something he was thinking about that he couldn't say, or she'd said too much. "Will you tell me about your past?"

Johanna looked away, back out the window. "Not much to tell." Only eight years of it. "But maybe another time. I'm having a bad day." She felt bad, however, to deny him. "Do you want a sandwich?"

As if that would fix things. But John didn't answer. "I shouldn't ask." He spoke completely out of context. "About you. Not when I can't even stand to talk of my own situation. It's hardly fair, if you wanted to ask something. I just… couldn't give you an answer- if you did."

"John, I'm fine if you ask me things." Johanna told him. "I may not be able to answer, that's all. It's not the questions that bother me." She was looking back down at the papers, getting confused by the content. "And what the hell is all this?"

"It's not mine." John shook his head. Oh, meaning the blood splatter, alleyway map, and other odd things had belonged to Sherlock. "If it's weird, blame Sher- Sherlock… He was a detective."

She put the papers down, getting up from the table. "Sandwich? I got turkey and ham, and some cheese." Johanna offered lightly. "I'll make you one. Or heat up some beans."

He seemed to relax a bit, but his voice was still quiet and hurt. "Turkey, please."

Johanna passed him to go into the kitchen. As she did she gave his shoulder a pat as if she were just guiding her way. Today hadn't been a great day for either of them if his attitude was anything to go by. Maybe she'd wait a few more days than planned before bringing up the boxes again.

* * *

Johanna was startled awake by a loud, strangled sound. It was one she knew. The sound of a horrible nightmare. It wasn't a scream, but a yell, half a word, horror and pain. She scrambled from where she slept on the couch, the sound stopping but that meant nothing for the dream.

Heading up the stairs to John's room, it began again. A vocal gasp. She'd knock, but that was discomforting, waking up in a small room alone. Johanna went into John's room expecting him to be asleep, to be writhing and dreaming, but he was up. Sitting up in his bed, gasping, hand clenched into his hair and the other with a gun in it.

Cautious, she stayed at the door. "John?" Johanna called quietly.

He startled but at least the gun hadn't pointed at her in reflex. She knew to keep still as he composed himself. There were a lot more people invalided in war on the streets than there should be, and many with horrifying nightmares and mood swings. Johanna wasn't going to be a threat while he got over his dream, and didn't move until her tossed the gun to the side of his bed. His face was glistening in the dim light with a cold sweat.

"Dammit." He grumbled as she moved into the room.

Johanna moved to the side of the bed, not touching him but hovering her hand over his tense arms, still gripping his head. "John, sorry – I'm sorry." She told him lightly, seeing tears in his eyes. "It's–"

"Don't you dare say it's going to be okay!" He snapped. Johanna didn't move, didn't even flinch. The crying got worse. "It's never going to be okay! He killed himself and I- I can't even… My goddamn leg!"

Hand fisted, he hit himself. Johanna dropped her hand then, right onto the abusing hand, holding him so he wouldn't do it again. Part of her was scared. "It's just one night." She finished what she was saying. "One bad night."

He drew in a sharp breath. "My leg hurts." John murmured, voice rough and hoarse.

"I can make you a cuppa." Johanna sympathized, still holding his hand, not once relaxing from the fist. "Do you want tea?"

Then the hand slid away from hers. He scrubbed both palms harshly over his face in the dark. "I- please. Yes, please." John agreed. "I can… I'll meet you downstairs."

Letting him have his time, Johanna left the strange bedroom and went down to the kitchen. She'd never made tea before, not to her recall, but it came naturally the moment that she picked up the kettle. Fill it with water, heat it, prepare the pot. She put in the tea bags, knowing she should have only put in three for the pot size but putting in four instead. John came down from his room, shuffling and holding his upper thigh on the right, just as the kettle began to whistle. Due to the time she was quick to take it off the stove.

It steeped as she gathered two cups and saucers. It took an extra few seconds to find the sugar dish in the dark, but she managed and then poured some milk into the cream holder. Before taking the tray over to John, she took the teabags out. Johanna set the tray down on a folding tea table, on her knees next to it.

"Milk or sugar?" She asked him quietly, pouring the two cups of tea for them.

He took a moment, fingers scratching over the stubble on his chin. "Milk." Johanna gave one cup a little dip of milk, leaving her own plain as she handed it to him. "What the hell are you wearing?"

Johanna forgot about her rugby shirt, full of holes and old as could be, long and almost to her knees. "Oh, I don't have pajamas." She whispered, taking her cup and sitting back on the ground.

In the time she lived there, the pristine black chair and the back bedroom never felt like a common area, so she didn't bother. It never occurred to her John may be bothered by her always on the floor, but he was. He gave her a careful look before sipping at his tea in the dark. Johanna waited on sipping her own for a reaction on her very first attempt in eight years at making a pot.

"This is the best cup of tea I've ever had." He commented. Despite flat tone, the compliment wasn't lost.

Johanna was surprised. "What, really?"

Even in dim light she saw him nod, heard him take another sip. "Maybe it's how much milk you added. It's perfect." John assured her.

She smiled to herself, holding her own tea cup up, ready to take a sip. "Thank you. I- um, I don't think I've made tea in a really long time." Before she lost her memory, she had to have made tea a lot. It was so simple.

They were both quiet for a while, drinking. There was a clink of John's cup and saucer as he put them down on the tray. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

Johanna shook her head, not knowing how well he may be able to see her. "I'm up most of the night anyway. It's fine." She assured him. "But how's your leg? You gave it a good hit."

"It's just my damned limp." John grumbled. "It doesn't really hurt – it's psychosomatic. That means–"

"I know what psychosomatic means." She cut in. "Stress, trauma, so on. As if the original pain isn't enough." Her voice was kind though the topic not very. "I'm sorry."

He seemed to take advantage of this to stop talking about his own pain. "Have you ever had anything like it?"

Again, Johanna was shaking her head. "No." But she'd heard about it. Only, she wasn't sure where, or when.

She finished her tea and set it up on the tray. They just sat, John in his chair and Johanna on the ground, her rugby shirt pulled over her knees. It was a horrible hour of the morning, she was sure. If the sky outside were anything to go by, maybe four – years of studying that sky and Johanna almost always knew the time. Yet she wasn't moving and John wasn't claiming he had to go back to sleep.

Eventually he did lean forward with a slight groan, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's been almost two weeks." John said. Meaning since she moved in – eleven days exactly, Johanna thought. "And I can't even make a bloody box."

"That's fine." Johanna told him. "I didn't- I haven't read the papers, but I did find the headline the other day. It's only been three months."

Three months was hardly long enough to get over a death. Not when John seemed so close to Sherlock, the man, the fake genius, the great detective – it depended on who you asked.

John didn't respond, folding his hands together. "John, I'll make a box." Johanna told him.

"I'm not ready." He told her.

"Then you're not ready, but you never know until you try." She carried on quickly. "Next time you go to work, I'm making a box. I won't put anything in it, and if you don't like it we'll take it apart."

Moments passed. "I have to go back to bed." He didn't move. Just informed her, and sat waiting.

Johanna stood up. "Okay." She told him.

Only when she agreed did the man push up out of the chair. He passed by her, and as he did his hand fell onto her shoulder like he was just guiding his way. The same way she'd done it to him, to comfort without comforting. Only Johanna wasn't the one who needed it and wondered what the gesture was supposed to mean to her.

Later that day when John was at work, she kept her promise. Johanna assembled a box, a smaller one, and then set it next to the black chair. John came home, stared at it for a while, and then went to his room. Johanna was worried as almost took it apart again, but around eight he came downstairs and they ordered burritos for delivery. The box didn't go mentioned.

A few more days and, without asking if it may be alright, Johanna put the odd paperwork from the table into the bottom of the box. Just to see if something John never touched, never saw, would matter enough. Coming home, he noticed almost immediately. Then John took them out, sitting in his chair and reading through it all. He didn't eat that night and was still in his chair with the papers when Johanna submitted to sleep on the couch; But when she woke up the papers were back in the box.

This was good. Everything was looking up, just enough. As long as things moved very slowly.


	5. Chapter 5

** Chapter 5**

* * *

John had never been met when coming home. Not once, never. But getting out of the cab, Johanna was sitting on the steps up to the door. For a moment he was worried something had happened, or just hoped she'd accidentally locked herself out and there was nothing bad going on at all. He was settled, however, when she gave a slight smile.

"Hey, how do I get my college transcripts?" Johanna asked, standing as John went to unlock the door.

For a moment he thought. She was thirty – making her twenty-two or three when her memory went. Unless she did recall those days, he wondered if she even went to college. "You have to contact the school." He let them both in.

"Oh." She stated.

They went upstairs and John immediately noticed something was off. Something else had been moved. Anywhere else, anything else, he may not have realized it, but every time Johanna took away something else of Sherlock's, John found that he was aware. It had been a near month since she first built the box, the first step, and seven things slowly moved into it. And now there was a eighth.

_The skull._

"No, you can't pack that." John spoke a bit quicker, harsher than he meant. Not even taking off his coat he went to the box and took Sherlock's skull out of it. He'd been compliant until then, but this was too much. "Don't- just don't pack anything else! Wait until I get home!"

"Okay." Johanna agreed, though her expression was struggling.

John understood. In early August, the plan was for her to move in, they packed, she stayed for a little while and then left when she wanted to. Now it was mid-September and they hadn't filled _one_ box, just living together like this was normal. John was trying to replace Sherlock with her – not by mental capacity or activity, but quiet company.

Putting the skull back on the mantle, John turned to her. "Sorry." He told her, taking off his coat. Before it could be discussed, he went on. "What do you need your transcripts for?"

"I'm trying to write a proper resume. I need to get a job." She told him, pointing at the table. There was a blank paper, written all over in pen. "First draft."

"Why do you need a job?" He asked.

Johanna gestured all around, at the entire flat. "Rent. Savings. Clothes. Shopping. The same thing everyone else needs a job for: money." She smiled at him.

John blamed his hesitance for her thinking she had to change like this. "You don't have to if you don't want to. Don't worry about rent. Or shopping. I can get that." He draped his coat over the back of his chair.

"But I want to. I've been saving on the street anyway – I've already got a month of funds if I used it." She told him, sitting back down in front of her resume draft. "I've been trying to get off the street for a while."

Trying not to insist she stay, feeling it would seem too odd, John sat. "Well, you don't need transcripts for a resume. Just put what you studied and where." He told her. But he was also fishing to see if she would be able to tell him about her past.

"Oh." She only repeated. There was a moment where she only tapped the pen on the paper, not writing a thing. "John, how's your leg?"

He looked at her oddly. "Fine, why?" It had been bothering him, though.

With the pen in hand, she pointed at his right leg. "You're rubbing it." And he hadn't even noticed. "Sorry. I think I stressed you about the skull."

"It'll go away." John commented. _Eventually_, and _he hoped._ But there was no use in saying that. "It went away before."

"How?" She asked him, pulling her legs up onto the chair like she always did. One month and it was more than easy to notice the habit.

John cleared his throat, hesitating. What was there to say about that? He ran around solving murders? Looking at bodies? It was all thanks to Sherlock? So, that was exactly what he said.

"I was with Sherlock. He had a case and we ran around trying to catch a killer. It went away without me noticing."

Johanna seemed more endeared by the story than sympathetic, shattering his expectations. Everyone else who knew looked at him like John was going to follow Sherlock and jump on a building, save for her. "Action, then?" She commented.

"Definitely."

"Can't you do it on your own? Be a detective – maybe not on the same scale, but you've got experience."

He would never be able to. John wasn't clever. "No. No, I can't."

Johanna jumped from the chair, coming over to John. She leaned down with a hand on either arm of the chair. "Then come with me."

"What?" He blurted as she began to pull him up from his chair. "Johanna, come on, I just go off work."

"And then you'll sit here, mope, eat, go to bed, have a bad dream, and your limp will get worse!" Which sounded exactly like his plans for the evening. Excitably, Johanna was putting on her shoes. "Instead, we're going out, and we're going to be detectives about some of the hardest to identify sort of people."

He didn't understand, grabbing his coat. "What kind of people?" John asked as she rifled through her duffel bag.

She pulled out a long coat he'd never seen, in fine condition, that reminded him of a completely black version of Sherlock's, though the collar was flat and it was shorter. It was only a flicker of memory as she put it on, but it hurt. Then Johanna fastened one of the buttons and looked over to him. She caught his eyes, the green of hers almost yellow in the moment, and she was smiling.

"Homeless people, clearly."

Trying to ignore his leg, the reason for all of this, John followed her out of the flat. He didn't want to, not at all, but she was taking the lead of them as she had been for more than a month. Johanna evened hailed a cab in half a wave. It didn't feel right getting into it with her, trailing precisely like he would with Sherlock. This was so far only causing him more stress, but how could he tell her that? She was just far too much like him, and she didn't even know it because she didn't know a word about Sherlock like everyone else did.

The cab ride was quiet the entire way to where Johanna was taking them. He hadn't been listening to anything as she gave it. A great part of him was afraid that it may be a place he knew. Instead they pulled over at an abandoned tramway. While it did make him think a moment of an adventure he titled Blank Banker, it was different enough that John could deal with it. There were lights in the tunnel and clearly homeless people living about inside the mouth of it.

"Are you sure it's alright to be here?" John asked quietly as Johanna lead the way, getting stared at.

She shrugged. "You're not the first perfectly normal person to walk in here. Don't be nervous." It wasn't terribly assuring, but then she gave a turn and leaned against a space of wall in the tramway.

John stood next to her. "Is this where you slept?" He wondered out loud.

"No, I slept on rooftops unless it rained." She answered, looking around.

He started to observe with her, omitting the rooftop statement from his mind. There was a group across from them, a man to their right, near the entrance smoking, and to their left someone completely asleep. At least he hoped that this person was simply asleep. As he stared, looking for the shift of the body, for a breath being drawn in, Johanna slipped her arm around his.

"So tell me about them." She gave a slight nod to the group.

He looked across. Three men, one woman, sitting in a bit of a circle. They all had bags, no blankets or any sort of camp set up, but sharing a pizza. So far all he thought was that they were odd, and filthy. The longer he was silent, trying to see like Sherlock might, the less he saw.

Johanna caught his clueless look. "Okay, how about I tell you about them, and you figure out how you can tell." She described.

Right. Having it pointed out always made it easier to see. "Fine." He agreed though he wondered how Johanna would know anything. Unless she met them all herself.

"They're Belgian." She began, looking up at him.

John thought that was an odd place to start, but looked at the group. Nobody looked especially foreign, there wasn't any patch on their old bags to suggest they were from another country, so he focused. How would he be able to tell that they were really from Belgium.

_Accents_.

And not only did they have them as John listened in, but they were speaking French. "They're from the southern half of Belgium." John comment. "French, and accents."

"Good." Johanna smiled brightly, holding his arm slightly tighter. She paused for a moment as if she needed to figure out what else to make him see. "Alright, the woman and the man on her right are married."

It was a bit far for him to look for a ring on either hand, but John kept looking. The woman was leaning a bit near to that man, but did that mean they were married? They were smiling bright, but happiness didn't mean marriage, either. This was impossible! How could she expect him to know it? How did Sherlock ever do this?

"It's a waste of time. I'm not a detective." John got angry and slipped his arm out of hers.

Johanna let him get a few steps, and then was in front of him. "No, come on." She pleaded with him.

But he was annoyed and his leg hurt. "No! Leave it alone." He glowered and limped past her.

He stormed out the mouth of the tunnel, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. This was the end, he thought. John would have to stand up to Johanna not to drag him out anymore. It wasn't worth it to try and be someone else. And how did she know any of it? For all he knew the marriage claim was just made up!

He wasn't even aware she was following in his frustration until he heard her voice. "There was a white lace pin on her bag." Johanna called out, speaking over the sound of the street ahead and their feet falling on gravel with each step. "Some London chapels give them to eloper's who don't have proper dresses, to make their day special."

John stopped his pace, truly _bothered_. He'd looked at the bag and saw it, but didn't recall it at all. "Well, then, _you _go be a detective, because I'm obviously not clever!" He shouted at her. "I was _nothing_, every time I helped him. Nothing more than a lackey, a sidekick! I am _nothing_ without Sherlock!"

And Johanna stood there, letting him yell.

"You don't know what he was like! He was brilliant, he knew everything, and it was all ruined! Because it's so much simpler to think someone was a liar than a genius, and everyone – _everyone_! – doubted him but me." John ranted on. "You have no idea how hard this is! I can't pack his things, I can barely stand those _seven_ fucking things you packed, and I sure as hell can't be like him!"

"Have you been watching the news lately?" The woman deadpanned at him.

John felt the anger subside at the random question. "What? No, I haven't." He had work, came home, and Johanna and him never watched television.

She began to rant, tone calm. "A girl was found dead after being put to bed by a baby-sitter. The father and mother were out to dinner with business partners, and the older sister of the wife works in social care, visiting the wife. The body showed signs of ingesting poison. The babysitter had fed the girl pre-maid chicken strips and macaroni, and she'd had juice. Poison wasn't found in the juice or the food, but got into her stomach somehow. The body also showed old signs of abuse. So, who killed the girl and how?"

The story was sickening, but John listened. Let her talk. "I don't know, whoever abused her?" He commented.

"The father, but no, he didn't do it. He was out." Johanna told him.

John kept thinking. "The baby sitter."

"No, as well." She went on.

Despite getting it all wrong, John was calm. "Then who did it?"

Johanna crossed her arms. "The social worker. The sister." She answered.

"How?"

"The juice. The carton that was tested was missing two glasses of juice, and the daughter had two glasses. But the baby sitter also had one, so where's the other?" Johanna went on. "Another glass, in another carton. The sister thought killing the child would save it from the father, poisoned the last glass of juice knowing the babysitter would give it to the girl before getting herself a cup, as any baby sitter would."

John was stunned, and Johanna began to walk past him to the road. Then she turned. "Also, you may want to call the police and tell them that. They haven't got a clue."

"What, then how do you know?" John turned, asking as he caught up with Johanna.

"Because the sister was visiting. The last person to leave the house when the babysitter arrived, with no plans. Why leave if you have no plans?" Johanna asked.

"So you have an alibi." He realized as the woman waved down a new cab. He began to take out his phone, to call Lestrade and attempt to convince the cop he hadn't lost it. "Are you sure?"

"Of course." Johanna got in the cab, leaving the door open for him. John got in. "221 Baker Street, please." She said to the cabbie.

As it pulled away, he was dialing Lestrade. It would be the first time John talked to anyone from the police force in months. "Hello?" The Detective Inspector answered.

"Uh- It's John." He said, give Johanna a careful glance. She was just staring out the window. "Uh, it may not be our case, but that poisoned girl?"

Lestrade spoke on the other side of the line in wonder. "You're doing cases now? I'm not sure I can let you in. It's only been a few months, you need time if you'd like to come back on at all."

"No, I don't want that." John told him. Well, he did, but he wasn't clever enough. And it wouldn't be the same. "Just the girl. It was the wife's sister, the social worker. Um, there should probably be a juice carton in their bins that has poison and prints you can test for."

He caught a glimpse of Johanna smiling in the reflection of the car window. "What, are you kidding me?" Lestrade was clearly gawking by the tone of his voice. "I can't risk anything on a claim like that. How did you even come up with that?"

"It wasn't me." John admitted, looking down. "Just at least look in the bins, as a favor. Please."

There was a slight pause. John hoped the man would give him this. Then, in a soft tone. "Of course I will, but don't make this a habit, John. I hope whoever your source is in this isn't causing you trouble. Nobody needs that right now."

"Thank you." John told him, without defending Johanna's character, and hung up. His heart was pumping with nerves and possibly thrill. "How can you know _absolutely_ nothing about Sherlock, but be so much like him?"

Her head turned, and Johanna was looking at him. "I am? You never told me…" She spoke like this was bad, like she was guilty.

"No, just now." John corrected himself. "Knowing everything, solving a case, dragging me into odd tramways… Sometimes I get little reminders."

"I'm not. I don't mean to. I just wanted to show that you could be a detective, if you wanted–"

He stopped her. "I don't want to. I just miss it, and him." John corrected. "And I yelled at you. I didn't mean- Well, I meant it, but I'm really sorry."

"Rule number four."

It was sudden and John looked at her oddly. "What?"

"Never say you're sorry when someone else started it." Johanna gave a slight nod and she said it. "Rule number four. Just because I'm a tramp doesn't mean I don't have rules. They're morals, really."

"That's…" He thought for a moment. Apologizing when someone else started it really was senseless, but there had to be an exception. Of course, nothing too extreme had just happened, even if he was sorry. "Clever. You have more rules?"

She smiled. "I have a top five, really. Want to hear them?"

"Of course." John agreed. There was still very little he knew about Johanna, so this was insight.

"One: Never screw over a friend; Two: Be specific when you lie; Three: Always watch the watchers; Four: Never say you're sorry when someone else started it; and Five: Always, _always_, carry a knife."

For emphasis she pulled a folded pocket knife from her pocket, wiggling it a bit. "Jesus." John gasped a bit and she laughed while putting it away. "How many rules do you have?"

"Um, probably thirty?" She shrugged.

John fell quiet, memorizing those rules. Sherlock would have either liked this woman, or utterly hated her. The thought was actually really amusing. When they got out of the cab, his leg even felt a little better, though the pain wasn't gone. Just… lighter.

* * *

Johanna was pouring herself a glass of milk when John came home. "Johanna, you got mail from Oxford?" He posed the statement in confusion, walking into the kitchen. He had a large envelope in hand.

After some time, Johanna had decided that she at least had to know about her schooling, despite everything she didn't know about herself. It took a few tries at some colleges for her name to get any response. And then, it had been Oxford. So she paid the fee, gave her address and ID number, and asked for her transcripts. They were finally here after a week of waiting. Excited, she leaned across the kitchen table, arm stretched out for the letter.

"You never told me your last name was Monaghan." John commented as he gave it to her.

"It's not." She scrunched her face. Though that had to have been her name while she was in school. Not that it mattered. "But I wanted my transcripts and these are them!"

John stayed by the table as she opened the letter. "So what did you study?" He asked.

Her fingers paused, about to take the papers out of the envelope. Taking a moment before answering, she made herself take it out and look them over. Clearing her throat she tried not to sound surprised. "I double majored in Biology and Criminology."

It wasn't a memory, but she was positive she knew what she learned. It explained a knowledge of medical terms and diagnostics. And she knew laws she never heard of, always interested in how police functioned. Basic knowledge never left her – school, city, how to do things. It had _always_ been the personal aspects she didn't know, like what college she went to and so on.

"Really?" John seemed even more shocked than her. Johanna gave a smile and passed the paper over for him to look. "Holy- this was a full schedule! You maintained a 3.7 gpa on this schedule with a double major? There's even a little business courses in here! And you lived on the street why?"

"I like the street." And she never knew what she could do.

Taking the transcript back and picking up her milk, Johanna returned to the table where she had been writing her so-called resume for a near two weeks now. Rough draft, she corrected herself. All her minimal work experience from years of odd jobs on the street, her name, address, birthdate, her skills and everything required of her save for what she did in school. It had been a long shot, honestly, that she even went to school but she was excited since she learned and added it to the paper.

"You will need to type that up, I hope you know." John told her, sitting in his own chair.

Of course she did. She planned to take it to the library once she had her school record. "Yeah, I know. What sort of job do you think I could get?"

"God, almost anything. What do you want to do?"

In all her need and want for a proper job, it never occurred to her to take her pick. "I never wanted to be anything." Johanna frowned, looking over at him.

Only that wasn't true. As long as Johanna recalled, she wanted to be a detective. Considering John's past, that was something to _never _mention. Or pursue at this point – she didn't even want to do it now, it would be too difficult and take her away from the flat too often. Since she got to know John, it scared her to leave him alone. So knowing the hours he worked, she thought for a moment.

"Maybe I'll be a probation officer – the community center could use one." Johanna shrugged. She didn't want to, but it would be good for her. She would be good at it. "I'm great at correcting chaos."

"Johanna." John spoke slowly. She looked over. "I can tell by the look on your face you don't want to do that. I've seen how you work at the tramway. You can saw you want to work law – it's not as if I'll break."

Despite well wishes and permission, Johanna really couldn't. "Oh! Maybe I'll go back to the library." She made herself excited on purpose so he wouldn't question it. "I loved that job. I _always_ hid about the classics section when it wasn't busy. Which is always."

Not letting him react or try and convince her otherwise, Johanna looked down and began to refine her hand-written resume.


	6. Chapter 6

** Chapter 6**

* * *

Johanna felt stiff. Blame it on too much time trapped inside, figuratively, or blame it on sleeping on a couch for two months. Either way, she leaned down, arching her back and touching her toes, feeling her spine pop and stretch. That felt better than anything she knew, and then she stood up, hands to the ceiling, stretching herself tall.

"Tree impersonation?" John's joking tone came to her. Johanna stopped stretching, turning to the door. He'd just gotten home from work, clearly, holding one bag of shopping as he took off his coat.

She gave him a smile. "No, I'm just feeling very inactive." As she said it, she twisted, her back giving a pop. "When I get that library job, I'm walking. I used to walk everywhere."

"_If_ you get that library job." John commented with a slight smile. It was rare to see him smile, but she never took it for granted. That was rule number eight: cherish everything you get.

"Pessimist." She mocked, sitting down heavily onto the couch. As she did, John came over, holding something blocky and black out to her. A cell phone. "What's this?"

Her hands took it carefully. "It's Sherlock's old phone." John told her. Johanna was even more cautious then, holding it. "It turned off after… Anyway, I reactivated it with a new number. Thought you could use it before your new job so we can get a hold of each other."

John was giving her Sherlock's old phone? "Are you sure?" She asked.

"Mostly. Not really, but you need it and this is cheaper than buying a new one." He at least answered honestly.

Johanna turned it in her hands. "Thanks." She was actually really nervous about having a phone.

Figuring herself out, Johanna turned the phone on. At least she knew how – it would be an embarrassment to have to ask. The background was plain; there was only a sliding lock on the touch screen, so she opened it. Curiously she looked at the contacts. None of the old contacts had been cleared out. There were people she'd never heard of, then John and Mrs. Hudson, as well as places with multiple extensions. Scotland Yard, St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and many businesses.

"Nothing's been deleted out of it." She told John just so he knew. No response, but he hunkered down in his chair like it was a sad thing.

Exploring more, she went to pictures. There were what had to be a thousand. Crime scenes, close ups of hands, jewelry, tree bark, cars. This phone was a giant file of everything that Sherlock ever studied on a case. Then, at the end of the sliding folder, a new folder. It was only labeled _J_.

No idea what J could be, Johanna tapped it. Picture after picture of people, crowds, streets. Nothing definitive, she thought, not until she clicked to zoom in on one. Then Johanna realized it was a picture of her. Picture after picture of her in the park, walking, in groups of her friends. The dates varied. From seven months ago, nine months, eleven months, a year, a year and a half. Every now and then, a date popped up, all the way back to nearly three years ago.

Horror, confusion, and fright filled her. "John, John!" She shouted, jumping up from the couch. She was furious and held the phone in front of him. "What is this? What do you know about me? What the hell is this for?"

His eyes searched the one picture. Showing him and sliding from picture to picture, she showed him there were more. "Why are there a hundred pictures of me on this phone?"

His head was shaking in complete denial. "I-I didn't know he had pictures." John stammered. He began to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I really didn't know–"

"But you knew me? Somehow you knew that he was _stalking_ me!" She dropped the phone from view, yelling a little at John. "What do you know about me that I don't know?"

John put his hand up, defending himself. "No, it's not like that. I never stalked- no, Sherlock did and when I noticed I asked him." He began quickly. "He just said you were a part of his case a long time ago. And I've been waiting for you to tell me yourself–"

"Tell you what?" She bit out.

"That you have amnesia."

Johanna left out a breath as if it were knocked out of her. John knew what she'd been hiding for eight and a half years from the entire world. Drained, she sank down into the square black chair she'd never sat in before, shoulders drooped. John was watching her with concern and fear that she may freak out again.

"You knew… The _entire_ time." She revised what she'd just figured out. John gave a nod. "I can't believe it. Oh my God, you knew before asking me to live here? Is that why you asked me when you could have gotten anyone?"

Again, his head moved up in down in agreement. "Why?"

"Just, he said he'd been taking care of you. Tall stranger with dark hair? The random money? I think that was all him." John explained.

Her stranger. Fifty pound notes wrapped around paper scraps. Little sentimental hellos and streets to visit on certain days, dry cleaning slips with a letter to tell her to keep the clothes. Her favorite long coat among them. All of this from a man she'd never met or heard of, a detective from before she lost her memory, and he had died before she'd been able to trace anyone back to him and say thank you.

Johanna wasn't sure she could breath. "Thank you." Was all she managed to say to John. The one thing she couldn't say to the man who did this all for her. "I… I would be long dead, you know, without him. I've tried for years to ask if- Nobody knew him… Did he say how well he knew me before?"

This time there wasn't affirmation, but a shake of the head. "No, he only said that he was working a case and you were a victim."

She wondered if that was why she thought maybe she'd heard his name before, from the first time John mentioned him. "I think he visited me in the hospital…" Her memory was very fuzzy the first few months after the fall. "God, it's creepy but I'm really _glad_, I think."

"I should have told you earlier on, not two months in."

"No, no, it's fine. I'd have probably hit you upside the head if we'd just met and you said '_hey, my friend used to stalk you, let's live together_'."

John gave a laugh, but it was sad, forced, and short. Then Johanna realized where she was sitting and jumped up in shock. The man seemed startled at the sudden movement.

"No, sorry, just I realized I was in his chair." Johanna gestured, stepping away and tucking the cell phone into her jeans pocket.

"I just gave you his phone – I think you can sit in his chair." John assured her.

Thinking about it, Johanna sat back down with caution, like it was an experiment. John just smiled at her, a hand under his chin. "This is the most uncomfortable chair ever." She told him sarcastically, actually just fine in the sinking cushion.

"Matched the man who owned it, then." He teased.

Johanna laughed, sitting back. It seemed today was a very good day. They needed more of those.

* * *

"Oh my God." Johanna held John's arm in calm surprise. They were both standing in the living room, looking down.

"We did it." He stated in a dead tone.

She looked over at his profile, his eyes taking everything in. "Are you okay with this?"

"Yeah." He told her.

They had filled a box. Granted it was mostly impersonal books that needn't clutter the shelves, but they had finally filled the small box.

John took in a deep breath. "Now what?"

"Considering it took you five months just to get this far," Johanna began, knowing now exactly when Sherlock died. Half the time, almost exactly, she'd been living at 221B "We just make another box and let it sit."

"Right."

But neither of them moved to do that. All the boxes were still behind the couch ready to be made and used. Johanna didn't want to do it herself. She'd been pressuring him a bit lately to just fill this first box, and was afraid John wouldn't accept it.

Patting the arm she'd been holding, she caught the Army man's attention. "How about we get ice cream?" Johanna offered. "A little celebration!"

"Ice cream is your idea of a celebration?" John gave a slight snort. "Usually people go to the pub for a drink."

"Alcohol is a depressant, honestly." She told him, moving away from the packed box to get her black coat from the coat hanger by the door. Johanna looked at John as she put it on. "Well, let's go to the pub, then. And the market – I want ice cream."

"It's a bit early for the pub." His eyes were on his watch. Not having one, Johanna checked the time on her phone. Barely after noon – it was John's day off. "How about lunch and ice cream?"

Glad that he was, in fact, up for going out, Johanna put on a smile. "Alright, mate. Lunch it is." It would also be the first time they _ate out_. It was always take-in and home cooked crap for dinner.

So they went out, taking a cab to a diner. John seemed thoughtful for a while as they entered, but it passed eventually. Then they were chatting. It wasn't the _get-to-know-your-flatmate_ sort of chatting like they had been doing. It was all games of Would You Rather? Or pick one of two very ridiculous things.

"Okay, super powers or never ending Christmas?" John asked her.

Johanna gave a laugh. "Um, super powers."

"Really?"

"Of course! Christmas is rubbish. Unless Santa Clause can exist, in which case I would change my answer." She claimed. John chuckled at her. "Okay, classic: If stranded on an island what one thing would you want?"

He sucked in a breath between his teeth, stabbing at his food as he thought of an answer. "Assuming there's food and water on the island?"

"Yes."

"An umbrella. For the sun. Or rain, whatever." He told her and took a bite. Johanna thought over his answer, amused and a little surprised. "What would you want?"

She already had her answer, immediately telling him. "A book on how to build a raft."

John stilled. Then he started to laugh at her, sitting back. "That's clever!"

"Your turn." She told him, sipping at her water.

There was a slight pause, and he gave a shrug. "Sex or money?"

It really was a simple question. "Money."

"You can't be biased because of living on the street – based on right now, with money and an indefinite home, no worries: that's how you have to answer." He told her.

Johanna took a longer moment. She didn't _remember_ sex. If she ever had it. And there had never been a single person she'd met she even wanted to be with.

"Still money." She answered, but at least she'd thought about it this time. "I've had none of either thing in the past eight years, so it's not a biased answer." Johanna looked at John, realizing she suddenly made things a little less light. "You'd definitely pick sex, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, probably." He smiled at her.

After lunch they walked to a market nearby. It was a huge debate in the frozen goods isle. What ice cream to get? Mint, or brownie and caramel. It somehow was a topic that got diverted from the original two choices and they had to chocolate, vanilla swirl. Then, still in the isle, it was a fight on who would pay – John got lunch so Johanna won that fight. Also, she'd taken the carton and ran for the cashier before John could complain.

When they got back in a cab for home, John was rubbing his leg. "It's getting worse, isn't it?" She asked lightly. They too often avoided bringing it up.

"No, only when I think about it." Of course, that was how psychosomatic pain worked. Stress, trauma, it caused the pain. You pay attention to the pain and it gets worse, at the forefront of your mind.

Johanna didn't mention more. "So, if you had to pick…" She began, playing another game. "Soldier, or doctor? Only one."

He gave a small smile, hand falling away from his leg. "Soldier. Says a lot for my mentality. And you with your degrees – Crime or Science? Or do you not remember…"

Her head tilted thoughtfully. Full lessons had been coming back to her. Maybe not the scene, but the context. "Crime."

"And you only applied to libraries _why_?" John criticized her. Johanna had applied to three, really, and the nearest called yesterday to hire her on for next week.

His question was one she asked herself, but it felt like _cheating_ to play detective. Because John couldn't when he wanted to, because his friend did and hadn't made it, but also because of something Johanna didn't even remember. It just didn't feel right.

Instead of saying this, she blew a raspberry. "I need peace." She announced.

When they got back to the flat, John went to tell Mrs. Hudson about the ice cream. They'd already decided to save it for the night and invite the landlady, should she want any. So as he did that, Johanna hopped upstairs to put the warming tub of ice cream in the freezer. They never used. And because they really never used it, when she crouched to open it she got a shock. A hand on a sharp hook and chain, hanging from the top of the lower compartment, old and frozen.

"What the…" Johanna pulled a face, putting the ice cream away. Hesitant she unfastened the chain, practically frozen in place. It took a lot of tugging and the hand was swinging.

When it finally came free, she fell onto her backside. The freezing cold, severed appendage landed in her lap. Bothersome, but for some reason Johanna wasn't too panicked, picking it up by the chain and getting to her feet. The dead and blue hand was in a creeping, gripping gesture.

As she was going to find him, John came into the flat to see her holding it up. "There was a hand in your freezer." She told him.

John was far less calm than she was, jumping when he caught sight of it. "Oh, god, Sherlock must have- He ran a lot of experiments." He explained mournfully. "Um, I'll call someone to come and get it."

She gave a frown. "We can't keep it." John told her when he saw her face. "It's illegal. And unsanitary."

"I wasn't suggesting we keep it." She spoke flat out, lowering the chain and holding the ice block hand itself. John made a face at that, her holding the dead hand. "Oh, grow up, it's frozen. So who are you going to call?"

Taking out his phone, avoiding looking at what she was holding, John gave it some thought. "I suppose the police – Lestrade is the safest bet. He's a Detective at Scotland Yard."

He dialed and held the phone to his ear. As John went into the living room, Johanna leaned onto the kitchen table. The giant man's hand made her wonder what kind of experiment it was, unless the hook through the palm was the experiment. A few minutes later, as her fingertips went numb from holding it, John came back.

"Lestrade's coming over to get it himself. We'll avoid any trouble that way." He told her. "And can you please stop touching it?" He finished without missing a beat.

Honestly she only felt silly, grabbing the hand by what little there was of a wrist and holding it up. "High five."

John dropped his head with exasperation, but a small smile he thought he was hiding. As he walked out of the kitchen, Johanna turned the hand inward and high fived it herself, careful of the hook. Another ten, nearly fifteen minutes ticked past, Johanna staying it the kitchen trying to think. This should bother her, make her sick, but she kept holding the hand and even attempted to take the metal piece out of it.

"It's beginning to thaw!" She called out when she felt a mildly disgusting slip of skin that wasn't _totally_ ice now.

"Who the hell are you?" A different voice with a very different accent spoke up. Johanna looked up, a man in a suit and jacket at the door, John pushing himself out of his chair.

The Army man began to explain. "My flatmate. She's been here a couple months." He started to gesture between them. "This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

She held the hand by the chain now, giving a wave. "Johanna Holmes." She smiled.

"What?" Both men blurted.

"That's a horrible joke." John deadpanned.

She didn't understand the problem. "The hell is wrong with you?" Lestrade bit out at her.

"What?"

Her flatmate couldn't even look up at her. "How can you say something like that?"

"What?"

"You can't be serious." Lestrade spoke over her.

Johanna put the hand on the table. "Hold on! I don't understand what's going on. What's wrong with my name?" She shouted at the two. Her hand went to her pocket. "Look, I've got an ID and everything, it's not like I'm lying."

She gave the ID up, Lestrade taking it. His expression changed from angry and offended to simply scrunched. "It says Johanna." He pronounced it the very way it was spelt.

"Pronounced Jo-nah_._" She spoke immediately, liking that she got to correct him.

"Any relation to Sherlock Holmes?" He asked her slowly.

"What, Sherlock's name was Holmes?" Johanna hadn't ever looked it up, never bothered. And John never said it. "No, I'm not- I don't know who he is."

"You might be wrong." John commented. Their eyes met. "You don't _have_ your memory. You could be his sister for all we know. And Sherlock told me you had a family…"

Johanna hadn't thought she had family. If she had family, why did she leave? Far as she knew there was only an aunt she never talked to. "Doubtful. No relation! Or, I don't know, distant cousin."

"You don't have a memory?" Lestrade was still staring at her ID.

"Just, some. I fell." She summed up. He held the card out for her again and she took it. "Anyway, hand. It's beginning to defrost, so…"

From his pocket, the Inspector took out a large plastic bag. As he opened it, Johanna picked it up by the fingers. "I tried to take the hook out, but no go." She explained while putting it in for him.

"You really shouldn't touch it." Lestrade informed her. "It's a bit illegal, and all that."

John cleared his throat, still in a bit of a damper. "Hey, is Scotland Yard hiring?"

Lestrade turned on him. "Are you looking for a job?" He startled, as Johanna went to wash her hands.

"No, it's not that." There was a pause as she turned the sink on. Only half her attention was spent on listening to them. "Johanna – she could use it."

That was sudden. "What?" The turned so quickly that her foot slipped and she fell to one knee. Getting up quick, she turned the sink off and faced the men. "No, what about the library, John?"

"She's got a degree in criminology and biology. She also was the one who told me about the case of the poisoned girl." Her flatmate ignored her cries, listing everything off for the Inspector.

Johanna stayed still as Lestrade turned. "We were able to arrest the sister on that insight. Did you visit the crime scene like a vigilante?" He seemed a little judging, understandably so.

"No, I watch the news. And I don't need a job!" She wasn't _angry_. She just didn't like how John made her sound a little desperate and unable to speak for herself. "I'm a librarian."

"She wants to be a detective." John carried on.

It was like a game of table tennis. Lestrade was looking quick between them both, especially when Johanna piped, "No, I want to read books."

"She's really clever."

"Everyone's clever. I can't qualify, anyway. I'm a tramp with amnesia."

"Ignore that, she meets every requirement. And she's really a lot like Sherlock."

That was one too many. "I can't, John!" She was unexplainably depressed. What was wrong with her, getting upset over someone she didn't know?

"He looked after you. Maybe this is why!" John yelled right back at her. "I don't know, maybe you are related! Maybe you even worked together, but every day you are more and more like him and you don't even know it."

Embarrassed that this all happened in front of Lestrade, it was hard to be upset. It was the inspector, clearing his throat, that broke the silence. "I've got to get the hand to the morgue."

"Right." John spoke slowly.

"Bye." Johanna added without pause.

The Inspector didn't go right away. "Johanna, if you _don't_ want to be a librarian, I could pull some strings. You'd only have to take the physical exam and go through a little training." He was saying to her.

Crossing her arms, hands still wet, she looked at him. "I've got a job." The offer was what she wanted, but not the least bit tempting.

"Then it was nice meeting you." He gave a slight wave, then said a goodbye to John as he left.

The two flatmates were in a silent fight. Her just standing stubborn, and John looking at the ground with a clenched hand. The man was the one who eventually made a verbal argument. "You should take the offer."

"Why? I'm happy with the library job." Johanna told him. "Why is this so important, John?"

"Because you want it."

No, no she didn't. "I don't want it! I- I really do, but I'm like you. I am missing _something_, and it's not fair because I don't even know what it is." Johanna felt as lost as ever, and her voice had cracked. "And I can't replace Sherlock for you – if I can't just be a librarian I think I'm going to have to move out."

Every little bit of her was serious. She would leave if this couldn't be resolved. And John seemed to realize that. His head ducked more, he thought it over, then he looked up. His forehead had deep stress wrinkles as his brow furrowed in mental pain.

"Don't move. I'll leave it alone."

Johanna's sigh was one of relief. "Thank you."


	7. Chapter 7

** Chapter 7**

* * *

It was days later and curiosity got the best of Gregory Lestrade. Between paperwork and shuffling cases to other precincts, he found himself at his computer _needing_ to know who Johanna Holmes was. Pulling up the database, he typed in her name. It was perfectly unique so there was no mistake.

Only, there wasn't much there. Name, birthdate, gender – your basics. No job history, no medical history, no criminal, familial, or marital status of any kind. Everything said _N/A. _Lestrade even re-signed into the program to see if something had just glitched, but there wasn't any way to access her personal information. Curiously, he tried a third time to look her up.

No changes. But at least he was able to confirm she wasn't lying about her name. It was still far from a satisfactory thing, though. Lestrade had to stop obsessing – it was only that ever since Sherlock jumped, everything was different. More difficult, less happy, and God forbid him say that all of his team was missing the annoying bastard.

His need to know about the girl grew, however. Lestrade was picking up his phone before he could decide that it was a _bad_ idea, and he was calling John. It would be a work day, and at one in the afternoon he was probably busy, but John still picked up before the third ring.

"How much do you know about your flatmate?" Lestrade asked after the answer.

The reaction was expected. "What, why?" John questioned him.

He was not above admitting it. So Lestrade confessed, "I looked her up in the system. It's as if all her information is blocked. 'Non applicable' all across the page."

There was some hesitance. "I don't know anything you could put in a file, but I know her well enough."

"You said Sherlock looked after her."

John gave a slight groan – not attitude, but as if he were getting comfortable, maybe he was sore. "He told me that last year. He gives- gave… He gave her money and kept an eye on her. Apparently even left notes." Lestrade really couldn't imagine that charity from the man they knew. "He, um, he seemed sad and compassionate about it all."

"And what was that amnesia thing? Does she really not have a memory?" That had been bothering him as well. Just because you didn't recall it, didn't mean there shouldn't be information in her file.

"Eight years ago she lost it. Anything before then, she doesn't know." John spoke as if this was difficult. Lestrade wondered momentarily how long they lived together – the man who seemed so lost now also seemed very attached. "But I think she recalls some things. She remembers her university courses, even if she doesn't recall her teachers or sitting in a class."

None of this was helpful, per say, but at least Lestrade knew something about her now. "I apologize for calling you at work – I'll talk to you later, John." He said.

"It's fine."

They hung up and Lestrade ran his hands over his face. What had Sherlock done to them all? That he was actually thinking maybe this woman was something, anything. Not that he could explain the thought, but it had been odd meeting her, a severed hand in her grip.

* * *

Johanna loved when winter began and instead of rain there was just slight sprinkling. It was like a thick fog. She even had an umbrella but there was no point to it when you would just walk into slow falling water and get wet either way. It stayed in her pocket as she walked home from the library – every day at a boring job was still a thrill because at least she had it.

She was halfway home on her forty minute walk when she turned a corner and saw part of the street blocked off with yellow tap. It was in front of two town homes, but it wasn't the building police seemed to focus on, but the alley right between them. Gawkers and cameras surrounded the wide berth, but Johanna wasn't too interested. It was only on her side of the street, so she was walking towards it with full intent to go around.

Only was she got nearer, she saw a small familiar face sitting in the back of an ambulance. Johanna broke her rule to avoid crime scenes – rule number nine when she lived on the street – and she pushed to the police tape. A sergeant stood there in a yellow slicker, keeping Johanna from going on.

"No, that's my–" She almost claimed the little girl as her daughter. Honestly it was Anna. She lived on the street for a near year, with her father. But then Johanna saw a face she knew and let out a loud whistle. "Lestrade!"

The grey haired man turned from under his umbrella. "Let her in, Donovan." He called to the officer. So Johanna ducked the tape, jogging over to him. "What are you doing here?" Lestrade questioned.

Anna was safe, in the ambulance under a blanket, so Johanna needed to know why she was there at all. "I was on my way home. What happened?" Please don't be the father.

"Who's this?" The dark skinned sergeant, Donovan, asked as she came up. It would be fine, but Johanna was waiting for an answer.

Lestrade looked between them. "Uh, Johanna Holmes – no relation." He added the second part very quickly. "Johanna, Sergeant Donovan."

"Please tell me what happened." She couldn't focus on anything else, let alone greeting the woman who was giving her a sour look. "Please, please, please tell me that it's nothing."

He seemed surprised by her begging, but gestured to the alley. "Homeless man found dead. Gunshot. That girl," He then pointed to the ambulance. "Was found running in the street and showed someone the body."

Horror stricken, she covered her mouth. "Do know her?" Lestrade asked. "You said you used to live on the streets."

"Yeah." She answered. "Um, and the body? Any ID?"

"He doesn't have one. Do you want to–"

Johanna knew the question. "Yes, please."

He put a hand on her shoulder and they walked into the alley. It was empty save for people and a makeshift tent to keep the evidence from getting too wet. Johanna felt sick as they walked to the body. Not because she had to see it, gunshot to the forehead, but because she just _had_ to know the person lying there on the ground.

The worst part was she got distracted. Her eyes went over the body and all she could notice was that the entry wound was for a 9 millimeter bullet. That there was swipes in the dirt of his coat where little hands had grabbed the man. There was blood splatter with clear, small footprints going through and one set of large ones walking the other way.

"Fucking dammit." She wore as she hovered. "I really, really hoped it would be- his name is Scott Hammier." Johanna turned to Lestrade. "What are they going to do with his daughter? Anna? Her mum's long dead."

Lestrade looked like a man who'd seen a few too many orphaned children. "We'll put her in the system, then social will find her a foster home." He told her.

"And the shooter, do you know anything?" The longer she stood there, the angrier she felt. She loved Anna. That little girl was so bright and brilliant – Johanna did her best to keep her clean and always read her stories when she ran into the traveling pair.

The Inspector scratched his chin. "We found the gun, prints are running. It's covered in them and grime, so we're bound to get the guy. Hopefully the daughter can ID him as well, make the case stronger."

That was proper police work, Johanna thought. At least that relaxed her, but she still had Anna to worry about. "Are you alright, Johanna?" Lestrade asked her. She realized a lot of time had passed.

"Sort of a crap way to see you again." She retorted, turning away from the body. He was with her as they walked out of the alley. "And sorry you had to, you know, see me and John fighting. It happens sometimes. And the whole hand thing – we had a crap first meeting as well, I think."

"Honestly, I've had worse." Lestrade told her. Then he stopped and turned to her. "I've got work to do, but you can talk to the girl if you like."

She nodded. As they split, Johanna went to the ambulance. The eight year old girl eventually looked up and jumped from the back of the ambulance. "Jo!"

Johanna caught her in a hug. Anna began to cry, clinging and legs wrapped around Johanna to be held. She didn't let go, but Johanna did grab the orange blanket that had been dropped when Anna jumped to put it on the girl. The entire time it felt like the wind was knocked out of Johanna. She'd seen people die on the street, get hurt, be arrested, but it had never been personal.

"Jo, can you take me?" Anna asked into her shoulder. "I don't know anyone else on the street. We can live together."

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, Johanna had to sit Anna back down. Tucking the blanket around the girl, she swallowed. "I don't live on the street anymore, Anna." She told the girl. "And you're not going back – they police are going to find you a place to live."

"I don't want a place to live!" Anna claimed.

If Johanna was so young, all she'd want was a place to live. Even a few months ago, all she wanted was somewhere to go at night. "Well, you can't be homeless. It's dangerous." Johanna spoke firmly.

"I can do it." Anna frowned, tears down her dirty face. Johanna was growing frustrated because she'd always felt inclined to agree with any childish face. "I really can! Dad says–"

Johanna knew what Scott said. You don't need anyone, they'll cheat you. "Well, he's wrong, okay?" She cut in, holding Anna's shoulders. She was nothing but bone.

The girl pouted heavily. "Don't say that."

Right, he just died. Of course the broken daughter would protect him, despite her shivering and depression. "Are you cold?" Johanna diverted, Anna still wrapped in the blanket but shaking like a leaf.

Anna nodded. So Johanna shed her long black coat, folding it up and holding it between her legs. She pulled off her jumper, kept dry and warm from the mist by her coat, leaving her momentarily cold in only a camisole. But Johanna moved the blanket to put her jumper on the thin little girl, taking her time to fix herself. Once Anna was in and pulling the blanket back around her, Johanna put her jacket back on with a shiver.

"It smells nice…" The girl whispered, burying her face in it. The jumper likely smelled like Johanna – soap and shampoo.

"That what clothes smell like when you have a home." Johanna gave a light retort. Then she recalled something that made her perk up. "Anna, I've got to do something."

The girl gave another small nod, and Johann closed her coat around herself as she jogged over to Lestrade. "Hey." She called.

The Inspector turned from chatting with a man in a forensics blue suit. "How is she?" He nodded back where she'd come from.

"Fine – not what I want to talk about." Johanna said quickly. "Rob Colts. He owns this a tea shop five blocks from here, and a 9 millimeter handgun, unregistered. That man always had a grudge with Scott for panhandling around the shop and attracting bad attention – he's threatened him a thousand times."

"You think a tea shop owner killed a homeless man for some spare change?" The forensics scientist complained.

She ignored him for a moment. "A couple months ago Scott started a _protest_ and Colts drew the gun on him. He's missing a finger and wears size eleven shoes."

Lestrade looked confused as well. "What's your point?"

Her phone began ringing as she spoke. "The foot prints in the blood spatter are size eleven, and I'd bet my life you won't finger any prints of a pinky on the gun." Johanna took her phone out.

John. He must have started to worry. She always made it home before him, because she got off an hour earlier than him. Honestly she hadn't even realized how long she'd been at the scene.

"John Watson?" The scientist asked as she answered it, clearly seeing the caller ID that Sherlock had inputted when the phone was his.

"Yeah, so?" She told him, receiver away from her mouth, then back again. "Hey."

The two men stood around her as John spoke, indeed a little worried. "Where are you? Did something happen?"

Johanna turned away from the piercing gazes. "One of my mates just died. I'm checking on his daughter." She could stand the thought of telling him she was helping the investigation. "I'll be home in half an hour, at best, I swear."

"Alright, if you're sure you're alright…" John carried on.

"Yeah. Promise." She was lying through her teeth. But he accepted it and they hung up.

The tall, brown haired scientist looked confused. "Now, hold on. You know Dr. Watson, I swear that's Sherlock's phone – what the hell is going on?"

"Anderson, leave it." Lestrade told him. "Johanna, how sure are you?"

Taking in a breath, she really thought about it. "There was a smudge on the jacket." Johanna told him. "Scott was pushed, the hand was wide but the finger spread was off. No pinky. There was a white hair on his sleeve as well – not animal, not his, not Anna's. Colts has white hair. And the motive, the grudge is there. If you ask Anna I'm sure she could say they had a more recent fight."

When she finished, they were both staring at her. "Ninety-eight percent." Johanna refined her answer, simplifying it.

"Does nobody think it could be a random crime?" Anderson asked with exasperation. "Maybe a mugging?"

Johanna turned on him. "Nobody mugs tramps."

"Well, then it could be a simple murder." He went on.

She gave a scoff. "Nothing is ever as simple as it seems."

"Lestrade, I'm serious, who is this? After what happened, I don't think we need another consulting detective." He spoke to the Inspector.

She tilted her head. _Consulting detective_. "Who?" She asked, though the term was familiar.

As she said it, Lestrade spoke over her. "Anderson, shut up. She's not replacing Sherlock Holmes." The voice was pained but stern.

Sherlock was a consulting detective, then. Johanna only ever knew the second half of the title, it was all John could say. She felt really sad, for some reason, and didn't know what she was doing any more. Then it was a little like déjà vu.

A hand on her chin brought her back, Lestrade looking at her carefully. "Are you crying?"

Johanna pulled back and touched her face. She didn't even know she was, or when it started. "I- I'm fine. I've got to get home, though."

"Alright. We'll look into Rob Colts, keep an eye on him until we can make an arrest." Lestrade let go of her. "Keep your eye on the news – if you ever have anything, you can call me. John has my number."

"I have your number." She held up Sherlock's phone. "Everything's still in it. Contacts, pictures, notes."

"Why do you have his phone?" Lestrade asked, and that was when Johanna realized Anderson had gone.

Slipping it into her pocket, she chewed her lip. "John… I really have to go. Um, thanks for letting me sort of invade." Johanna gave the crime scene a gesture.

"If you ever want that job, it's an open offer." Lestrade told her. "Officially."

Despite her nod, she left at that. Johanna still didn't understand – she felt horrible, and sad having done this. It wasn't even about Anna or her father, not really. When she'd cried, it was only because of a title she'd never heard. There was something wrong with her head, and maybe it was all the sympathy she didn't show to John flooding out, but that's not what it felt like. Either way, she wasn't going to take a job just to be in the shadow of a man who she didn't know, but everyone kept bringing up around her. A man who also helped her.

After saying a short goodbye to Anna, Johanna just got a cab back to Baker Street. It was like things should simply be over. Just like the day had to end though there were hours until it would be reasonable to even go to bed. When she got home, John was there, looking just as worn with worry.

"How did it go?" He asked her lightly and she took off her jacket. She'd let Anna keep her jumper, so Johanna just went to the black chair in her camisole.

"Fine. She agreed to deal with foster care – the daughter." She answered while curling up in the chair. It kept her warm and made her safe. "I don't want to talk about it."

And he didn't make her. John just ordered Chinese and they had a quiet night. She never mentioned going to a crime scene, either. John didn't have to know.

* * *

Sherlock was two years older than Johanna. She'd finally caved at some point, tired of not knowing who everyone was talking about, and she was researching. Of course, not having a laptop, not wanting to use John's, and definitely not going to use Sherlock's, her only means were things around the flat and old papers John must have thrown under the couch. And going through a book she instead found a folded up, worn out, mistreated birth certificate.

Other than that she found that they went to the same college, then unbelievable articles she barely skimmed, books on everything and anything death related, take out menus with dishes circled she knew John never ate, and so much more. It was an entire night of searching through the flat, and she didn't even know it. Sleep never came to mind. She didn't even have work to worry about, having Wednesday's off. The time was only made apparent when John came downstairs in the morning, ready for work and dealing with a slight limp.

Johanna didn't notice him for a minute, not until his voice floated to her. "You're doing it again." She looked over at John. "Looking sad. Spacing out."

"Don't worry." She threw a little smile to ensure it was nothing. "You should go to bed – you've got work in the morning."

"It _is_ morning." He conveyed. The smile fell. Johanna spent an entire night sad and spacing, as John put it. "What are you thinking of when it happens? You never talk about it when you get that way."

This time she was just dwelling over the birth certificate. Folding it, she hid it between two books on the shelves. "It's just a feeling, John." She told him. "I don't know, I just get sad."

"I wish I knew how to help you."

Johanna turned away from the shelf, stepping onto the black chair to walk across the room to him. Carefully, she grabbed the shorter man's shoulders. "Rule number twelve, John. It's never wish, its hope. And I am fine." Johanna kissed his cheek. "Go to work, mate."

"Do you ever write down those rules?" He asked, still thinking, as he got his coat.

She fell into a comfortable position on the couch. "Nope." Johanna answered. "I remember them all. Well, that's not true." He looked at her, noticing how her tone flattened. "I, um, I had a notebook after I first lost my memory. Some were written in it, but the rest I made up over time."

"You should write them down." He offered a kind grin, then left for work.

While he was gone she didn't do what he suggested. No, instead she went back to searching the flat for information about Sherlock. However she couldn't gain the nerve to go to his room still, after months. It just wasn't right yet, not when they couldn't even get through the living room.


	8. Chapter 8

** Chapter 8**

* * *

A day in mid-December found John and Johanna in Russell Square. It was a rare day where it refused to rain, so they went out. If only because John was stressed every time he looked at what they packed in the flat. One the first box was finished, it escalated to two, three, four. Half the living room was now packed up, and the mass of beakers and petri dishes in the kitchen had finally been put into a cupboard.

"Alright, that's not a face I've seen." John commented, both of them sitting back on a bench, coffee in hand. It was cold but they just needed to be out. "What are you feeling?"

Not realizing she was making a face, she looked up him a moment then down at her cup. "Tedium." Johanna answered. "I don't think I've ever had everything just go right. Got a home, steady job, you, and even Anna's got a nice family and home now."

Having heard about the girl, he at least knew what she was talking about. "And so you're feeling tedium?"

"Well, a little, but no." She admitted, and sat up, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. Lately everything triggered her. Emotion filled her when packing the flat, she cried when John wasn't looking, and Johanna was thinking maybe she was remembering things.

"And now you're sad again." John mentioned. He juggled his coffee from one hand to the other so he could put a palm on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

Johanna blew at the steam rising from her cup just to watch it break in the misty air. "No, it's fine. Just weird dreams, don't worry."

Except it wasn't just dreams. Asleep or awake she was having these imaginative thoughts. A part of Johanna was beginning to believe that she used to work with Sherlock, long before her memory left her. At one point she found a knife, then for some reason she imagined handed it to the consulting detective, lifting off rule number five and being laughed at for it. There were a dozen other things just like that, like when she spotted the violin collecting dust and wiped it down. Maybe Johanna knew how to play?

"Is that why you haven't been sleeping lately?" John asked, breaking her train of thought.

It was true. She hadn't lied down on the couch once in four days. At one point she did fall asleep sitting up at the table, but not for long at all. "I didn't know you noticed."

"At first I didn't." Johanna looked over at him. "You're an insomniac either way – but I woke up and could hear you rifling around downstairs. You don't do that unless you don't intend to sleep."

She assumed after a near four months of living together, this had to be something he knew about her. "I'll have to keep quieter, then." Johanna made sure it was a teasing statement, smile on her face despite how serious she was.

John chuckled with her for a moment, meaning he obviously bought the false cheer. At least they were off the subject of how uncomfortable her life was. It was good, just nothing she was used to and she was having trouble with her little flashes of thoughts. Whether they be memories or imagination, she wasn't sure she'd find out. That was the hardest thing for Johanna.

"John Watson." A sudden voice said, a bit too cheerful. John and Johanna looked up. A man in a suit and overcoat, with a far too wide grin, had walked up. "And I can't believe my eyes! Johanna, little Johanna!"

She racked her memory, but it wasn't her recall that gave her his name. It just blurted out of her mouth. "Sebastian." Johanna even startled a bit to know him.

"I knew you would get that memory of yours back!" He reached out and she shook his hand if only because she was too stunned to do anything else. "It's been almost ten years since I ran into you."

John looked between them suddenly. "I don't remember…" Johanna told the man, Sebastian Wilkes. "I just knew your name."

He tilted his head, but kept smiling. "Oh, too bad then! And John, it's good to see you. You've got a good friend here." Sebastian cheerfully pointed at her.

"Um, yeah." John agreed with equal surprise. At least Johanna wasn't the only clueless one around here.

"A bit risky, this girl. Haven't seen her since her wedding!" She sat up straight. _Wedding_. She didn't remember it, but remembered being told she was married, when she was in the hospital "It was smack in the middle of finals week, but nobody dared miss it. Not that too many people were even invited – small affair. Test scores were affected!"

"Oh, really?" John commented. "Well, um, good to see you as well, Sebastian. But we've got to go – plans and all."

John was saving Johanna, she realized. "Right. I've got to dash as well. Meeting in an hour." Then Sebastian's face grew a little more serious. "Sorry for your loss. I know he wasn't a hack like they say – annoying as he was in Uni?"

So he went to school with Sherlock, and her. She was only two years younger – they'd have crossed paths. "Um, did we meet in school?" Johanna had to know, just before he left.

"Of course. Business, freshman year." Sebastian responded like she should have known, which she should have. "You were two years ahead – it's why we all called you little. Sixteen in Uni? Ridiculous!"

So age didn't matter, she realized as he walked away. Johanna was there all four years Sherlock was. They had to know each other. And her name – maybe they were cousins or something. It would explain so much, if only she remembered.

Johanna physically jumped when there was a hand waving in front of her face. Looking around, Sebastian was long gone and John was standing in front of her. "Are you alright?"

"Um, yes, definitely." She told him, standing up. "I just… Don't remember it, and it's beginning to piss me off."

The look on his face was complete concern. "Come on, let's go home." John offered.

She agreed and walked with him out of the park. Along the way she threw away her coffee. It went mostly untouched and didn't taste that good either way, so there wasn't a point in keeping it. In the cab, however, she realized John didn't ask her anything. He asked about _everything_, and Sebastian just mentioned her wedding.

"You don't want to know about my marriage?" Johanna asked as they were heading home.

The man didn't look at her. She thought nothing of it, but it should have been clear he was avoiding her eyes. "It explains why Oxford addressed your transcripts to Johanna Monaghan. You got married in school."

She had forgotten completely about that. Monaghan must have been her name at some point. "During my last year." Johanna left it at that. "Not like I remember it anyway."

All she remembered was running away. What sort of person would forget their husband?

* * *

John got back from a regular, boring, nearly narcoleptic day of work – everything was so dull it could make him fall asleep. He heard sniffling when he entered the hall of 221. Mrs. Hudson, by the sound, and he ventured to her open door. She was just standing at her coffee table, dabbing at her face with a tissue.

"Mrs. Hudson, what's wrong?" He asked her. There was panic in his voice he wasn't sure that he felt yet. "Did something happen?"

She shook her head, wearing a sad smile. "No, no. I just forgot how much I missed it all. The violin at all hours of the night."

John scrunched his brow. "What?"

But then the sound floated down to them. Violin. A quick, low symphony of sound drifting from the flat above. His heart stopped at the sound that he hadn't heard in months, and John was running. Out the flat and up the stairs – his hopes were high. Of course it couldn't be him, it couldn't be Sherlock, but that didn't stop the name from leaving John's mouth like a breath.

"Sherlock…" He groaned entering the flat.

But it was only Johanna, standing in the corner of the room by the window. She was playing and hadn't heard him at all, fingers moving over strings and the bow gliding across. It was like hearing a ghost, seeing a lie. John couldn't do it.

Storming into the flat, he just yelled without knowing what would leave his mouth. "Stop it! Just, stop it!" The violin came to a screeching, startled halt. "Don't touch that, it's not yours!"

Dead silence came in response, but Johanna put the violin down, a horrified expression on her face.

"You, you just can't." John sputtered on the last waves of his rage. But his voice cracked and he felt winded despite nothing having happened. "Oh God, I need a drink."

"I'll make tea." Johanna posed more as a question, near deadpanned, lost.

John shook his head. Tea wouldn't do him any good. "A real drink."

She fully leapt over the black chair, ushering John to sit. He had no idea what to do with himself so his body complied while his mind was focused on whether or not there would be scotch in the house, or something a little stronger. However while he was thinking, Johanna was acting, sifting through her duffel bag that still played suitcase considering she lived in the living room. She pulled out a white paper back, extracting a perfect, glinting clean whiskey glass. Then out came a bottle of amber liquor.

John was amazed she was so readily tending bar, pouring him a half glass and handing it over. "Why do you…" He began but the rest of his question never came out as he desperately took the cold glass into his hand.

"It's always about the little things." Johanna frowned down, recapping the liquor bottle.

After drawing in a long mouthful of whiskey John chewed his lip. He felt stupid and so alone. While having someone who didn't know Sherlock had felt like such an amazing thing a few months ago, now he was worried about their constant misunderstanding, and the fact that he so clearly moved in with someone just like him.

He replayed her words. Small things. "Another rule of yours?" John retorted quietly.

"No." She shook her head. Johanna looked broken. "But they're the worst, the little things and depression? You expect it most of the time, _and then there's the little things_."

He gave a scoff and drank some more of his glass. It was smooth and warming. "My God, is this expensive?" John looked at the liquid like that would tell him the price tag.

"Bowmore, and only a little." Johanna looked at the label.

John got over the momentary lapse and looked down into the last little bit of whiskey. "I really am–"

"Sorry. I'm sorry, I started it." Johanna cut him off, stealing his words. "Rule–"

"Number four. I remember." Their eyes met and John forced a little smile.

She returned it, just as insincere, but what could they do. "Um, I didn't know I could play. So it was an accident, just so you know." Johanna gestured towards the window, to the violin. "I was dusting."

"Eight years and you just _figured out _how to play?"

"I suppose so." She looked over at it. "John, I… I've been thinking. I'm really, probably not to best person to live with." Johanna turned the bottle in her hands over nervously. "I'm just a bit too much like him. Sherlock. I really don't think this is good–"

"I don't want you to move." John said despite having a similar thought just moments before. Just a thought – he never wanted her to leave.

She put the bottle down. "Why, so I can keep depressing you?" Johanna asked rhetorically. "Because I'm getting really good at that! I should do it professionally. Just play violin, solve crimes, keep body parts in the fridge, and say _obviously_ every five seconds!"

John felt sick. "How did you know he said obviously a lot?" He asked her, wishing to just diffuse the fight.

"He thought he was smarter than everyone! Of course he said obviously a lot!" Johanna shouted. Her hands went up and she ran them through her hair. "John, I can't do this! I'm having just as much trouble as you and I don't even know _why_. I feel like some… imaginary friend or something, adapting to fill his place!"

Not knowing what to do or say, John put the glass down on the small round table, not even finishing it. "Okay, I'm fine!" Johanna claimed suddenly. "That was out of line. We desperately need a change in subject."

John offered it. "Um, today I asked some friends if they'd like to have a party Christmas Eve. Here."

Johanna seemed to calm and lifted her head. "Oh, really? That's fun." She agreed. "That leaves a little under two weeks, though."

"We're doing a strict no gift thing. It didn't go over so well last year." John carried on so that she wouldn't have to worry about buying things for strangers.

"So who's going to be there?" She asked

"Um, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, my sister Harry. Then whoever they bring and whoever you want to invite." He listed off. Johanna pulled a face, one that made John chuckle a bit. "What?"

She pointed to herself. "My friends? I've got maybe three guys I can stand from the street, and you don't want them in a room with a police officer." Johanna laughed.

John could understand. "Well, what about anyone from the library? You've worked there a bit, don't you have friends?" He offered. He wanted her to be comfortable with this, especially when she didn't know half the guest list.

"Well, they're all married idiots with plans save for Glenda." Johanna explained. "Well, maybe I'll invite Glenda. She is really nice to me."

"Then there you go." He assured her.

She smiled a bit to herself. "Yeah, it'll be fun. She's really, well, sheltered and maybe I can get her drunk."

John's face fell. "Um, that really shouldn't be your motive for making a friend."

"It'll be fine. I won't let her get _really _drunk, just a little."

* * *

Johanna sat behind the counter at the library, waiting for _someone_ to come in. Only, it was winter, it was cold, and nobody had a single reason to come in for a book. It was so mundane and she felt particularly _domestic_, sitting there sorting books. She liked being a librarian for the reading. She otherwise _hated_ the job, and sat there lolling her head back, annoyed and exhausted.

She didn't hear a door, but she heard footsteps. Johanna sat up quickly before she could be convinced into an uncomfortable sleep. Walking by, in thick glasses and a floral smock of a dress was Glenda. She really was a sweet woman, and funny. She snorted when she laughed, she made funny voices when reading out loud to the occasional child, but she _looked _slightly boring. This wasn't at all true, which was why Johanna was so willing to invite her for Christmas.

"Glen, you have a moment?" Johanna asked, leaning onto the checkout counter. Glenda turned brightly, always so smiling and nervous, coming over.

"How's it going, Jo-nah." Glenda pronounced her name with a bit of vigor. Likely because Johanna corrected the woman three times that it wasn't _Jo-Hanna_.

It was surprisingly endearing, and she smiled. "Are you doing anything for Christmas Eve?" Johanna wondered. She was sure that she wasn't – everyone else bragged for weeks about their plans, and now Christmas was barely a week and a half away.

Glenda shook her head, turning a bit pink. "Well, no. I was going to spend it with my family, but my parents decided to go to America for Christmas. Something about cultural difference, but it's basically the same there, isn't it?"

Johanna had no idea. "Probably. Well, we've been working together a while, and we eat lunch together, so you'd call us friends, right?" She went on.

"Oh, of course!" Glenda gushed. Her expression was sympathetic, like Johanna was the dim one, the sad one. Actually, Johanna thought, she probably was with her life story. "We're friends! I like you loads."

"Thanks." Johanna laughed. "Um, anyway. My flatmate is having a bit of a party. Just nibbles, drinks, hanging around with a bunch of strangers for a couple hours – would you like to come?" Glenda seemed surprised. "It'll be a little weird. As I understand in, there will be a cop, a pathologist, our landlady, and a lesbian, so I completely understand if you say no."

Glenda gave a flail of one hand. "No, I'd love to come! Um, wow, that's some weird friends." She whispered the last part, as if each one of the mentioned people would be able to hear.

"Well, John, my flatmate, he's a doctor. And his sister is the lesbian." Johanna clarified casually. "So far they've decided no gifts because only a few of them no each other, and there was some fiasco last year. Also, John said Christmas clothes, but I don't know what that means."

"It means dress like you usually do on Christmas." Glenda told her.

She had to pause a moment. "Well, um, I've never really celebrated Christmas. Weird family." Johanna fibbed.

Understanding, Glenda just refined her answer. "A casual dress or Christmas sweater. You know, pretty but not over doing it, or really festive." And Johanna had literally no dresses. "Hey, we close early today. How about you and me go dress shopping? I need something, as well."

Relieved, Johanna sat up a bit. "I'd love that. Thank you, a ton."

A bit gleeful, Glenda gave a little hop. "Alright! It'll be great. I'll, um, get back to work and see you later!" She went off with a hop in her step.

Not knowing at all what was so excitable about shopping, Johanna ended up laughing once she was alone. She was going shopping with a new female friend. This was like every bad movie, and she'd seen plenty on those days at the flat without a job.

A bit later, she texted John.

_I've no idea what I'm doing, but after work I'm SHOPPING with Glenda. Lord, wish me luck._ JH

His response was not helpful to her at all.

_How feminine of you. Try to have fun_. JW


End file.
